


Dreaming Spires

by RobinLeStrange



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Dreams, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Smut, Whump, all the feels basically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22507627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLeStrange/pseuds/RobinLeStrange
Summary: Case fic following on from my Christmas fic 'A Fairytale of Denmark Street' (no need to read it first but you might want to if you like to spot the foreshadowing!).Robin and Strike have been in a relationship for a month or so when a call from his old Oxford professor takes them back to St Hugh's College where mysterious, and now life threatening events have been occurring.With Robin undercover at the university they will have to manage their relationship long distance, whilst both detectives deal with various long-buried feelings about their respective pasts.When Strike's family are also targeted it appears that the case may be more personal than they both thought.
Relationships: Ilsa Herbert & Cormoran Strike, Ilsa Herbert/Nick Herbert, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 70
Kudos: 71





	1. New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Am not using warnings upfront or too much in the way of tags as it would rather defeat the purpose of writing a case fic. I will put them in the beginning chapter notes as I post though so do read for any potential trigger warnings.

Strike was already in the kitchen filling the kettle when Robin entered the Denmark Street office with a cheery ‘morning’!

He leaned out from the behind the partition and watched her unwind her scarf and hang up her coat and bag. The late January weather was foul. It was barely daylight, even though it was almost nine in the morning and bitterly cold. A few icy fragments of sleet clung in Robin’s strawberry blonde hair, and her cheeks were flushed with the transition from the freezing London streets to the relative warmth of the office. Strike thought she looked as beautiful as he had ever seen her, not least because she was beaming at him, eyes bright as she advanced towards the kitchen waving an official looking white envelope.

“Congratulate me…” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him firmly on the mouth, “I’m officially divorced!”

He picked her up briefly and returned her kiss hungrily, parting her lips with his tongue and leaving her in no doubt that he was as delighted with this turn of events as she was.  
“Does this mean we can stop sneaking about?” he asked, grinning down at her, “I know it’s only been a few weeks, but it feels like a lifetime.”

She nodded happily and gave him a final hug before taking over the coffee making.

They’d been together since Christmas Eve, and aside from their best friends Nick and Ilsa Herbert and Strike’s sister Lucy and her family, had decided to keep their fledgling relationship under wraps until her divorce was finalised and there was no opportunity for her ex-husband Matthew to try and put a spanner in the works. Strike had already had a run in with him the previous month, when he’d accused them of having an affair that pre-dated his own with Sarah Shadlock. The encounter had left Strike with a split lip and black eye because he refused to retaliate given that Matthew was clearly drunk, and it would be more likely to cause difficulties for Robin.

It hadn’t always been easy to maintain the pretence at work. Having had unspoken feelings for one another for so long it was far too easy to slip into habits of over familiarity, which would have been fine if they’d been alone in the office, but with Sam Barclay and Andy Hutchins now working for them full time and frequently popping in, they’d had to be extra vigilant about keeping their distance during working hours. It would be a huge relief to be able to tell them that they were a couple.

Robin had slightly more reservations about telling her family she was in a relationship with Strike. She was aware that her sister-in-law had suspicions, after Strike had enlisted her help to organise a surprise for her at New Year, but she’d deftly skirted the issue when Jenny had broached the subject on a recent phone call. She was fairly certain that her older brother Stephen and his wife would be delighted with the news – they’d both gotten on well with him at her ill-fated wedding reception. Her father she imagined would be cautious and reserved, but overall trust her judgement. Her mother Linda, however, was a very different proposition.

Robin loved her mother dearly. There had been a time, the darkest time, when Linda Ellacott was the only person she could bear to have near her and she would always be grateful for her strength, love and patience. But many years had passed since then, and whilst Robin had become increasingly determined to put the trauma of being raped and left for dead behind her and move forward, she could never quite shake the feeling of her mother’s fear, anxiety and disapproval holding her back.

Linda had liked Cormoran when she’d first met him on a flying visit to see her only daughter in London. She’d raised some concerns when Robin, posing as a taxi driver, had been attacked by a suspect, resulting in a car crash and concussion. By the time Robin’s wedding day had arrived, her gown accessorized with an eight-inch knife wound to her arm courtesy of the Shacklewell Ripper, Linda had been relieved that her daughter’s fledgling career as a private investigator was over.

Then Strike had turned up, knocked over the flowers, shocked the guests and caused Robin to run out on her first dance as a married woman. Robin had been delighted to see him, even more delighted when he'd virtually begged her to return to the job she loved alongside him.  
  
Her mother, however, had still not forgiven him, either for disrupting her daughter’s wedding day, or for drawing her back to the career she considered far too dangerous.  
  
No, Robin wasn’t looking forward to telling Linda about the latest development in their relationship at all, but for now she put it out of her mind and turned her focus back to her work.

* * *

Andy Hutchins and Sam Barclay arrived at the office shortly before five for a debrief of the week’s cases, as was the usual routine.

“Right,” said Robin, “First on the agenda, Caroline Ingles…again.” One of their longest standing clients, Mrs Ingles had boomeranged back to the agency on several occasions seeking confirmation of her wealthy husband’s activities with other women, but she always went back to him. It mystified Robin, as she didn’t appear to be the sort of woman who would put money over trust and happiness, but they could only stand back and watch, time and again, as she returned to her faithless bastard of a husband.

“I’ve got her coming in on Monday at two o’clock for the latest rundown. It’s not good news at all, so if you’re thinking of popping in around then, you might want to steer clear. I suspect it’s going to be long and messy.”

“No problem,” said Strike, who was well aware of the situation and delighted to be given the opportunity to be well out of the way when the proverbial bomb dropped.

Hutchins and Barclay exchanged a look but thought better of asking questions. It was clear to both of them that whatever was going on, Robin was the one with the unique skillset required to deal with it.

“How are you doing at the college, Andy?” asked Strike.

“All good, nothing to report so far. ‘Mr Chips’ is well liked by all the students and it’s clear a fair few of the girls have taken a particular shine to him, but I’ve seen no evidence of him taking advantage of it yet. He’s not so popular with the staff though, which makes me think at least some of them are aware that something is not quite right. Hopefully once they get a know me a bit some of them might start talking.”

Hutchins was posing as a tutor at a sixth form college in Plumbstead, where another member of staff was suspected of having dalliances with numerous teenage girls. Whilst rumours abounded, there was no evidence, which suggested either a campaign against the teacher for other reasons or, as both the Principal and Strike suspected, that the man in question was bloody good at covering his tracks.

“Here, take some cake or decent biscuits in for the staff room on Monday,” suggested Robin, handing Hutchins a ten-pound note from the petty cash tin. “I temped for a bit in Masham as a secretary in a secondary school…fastest way to get around teachers is food. I’d particularly recommend millionaire’s shortbread or jam doughnuts.”

He laughed knowingly and pocketed the cash.

“And do feel free to pop back to the office with any leftovers at the end of the day,” joked Strike.

Robin snorted and gave him an arch look. “I can tell you’ve never worked in school.”

Strike turned to Barclay. “How’s the little ‘un now?”

Barclay’s baby had recently had to have minor surgery and he’d been off for the previous week, after his wife, the higher earner of the pair, had spent the one before at home. He was back now to catch up on the latest work news and find out what he would be working on going forward.

“All good, ta,” he replied. “Mother in law’s staying this week so the more work ye can put my way the better,” he added.

“Great, ‘cos I’ve got something in mind. I’m going to see the manager of that building site near Stratford on Tuesday – the one where materials keep going missing. It looks like vandalism but there’s too much stuff being taken and all the security measures they’ve put in place so far have failed after a brief respite, so it seems more than likely it’s an inside job. It’s basically a civvy version of the case we met on in the Army, so all going to plan I’d like you on site from Wednesday.”

Barclay nodded, but still looked expectant. “Does this mean the next four days with the mother-in-law?” he grimaced.

“No,” replied Strike, pausing for a minute. What he was about to suggest was a new development resulting from text he’d received just before their meeting, and he’d not had a chance to run the idea past Robin yet.

“My mate Shanker needs a hand with a…project.”

He could feel Robin’s eyes on him and turned to face her.

“I know, I’ve only just heard from him, but it’s kosher…or at least as kosher as Shanker gets.”

He turned back to Barclay, who was smirking slightly at his obvious attempt to pacify a not particularly impressed looking Robin.

“Shanker’s my mate that helps us out when we need tip offs in exchange for information from the police. What he needs help with is a bit left-field but it’s not illegal and it will get us a few free tip offs in exchange.”

“How many?” Robin interjected.

“Two. One per day of work from Barclay.”

“Any chance you could get him up to three?”

Strike sighed. “You know what Shanker’s like, but I’ll try. If I tell him you’ve asked, he’ll probably go for it.”

To Barclay’s surprise she gave a satisfied grin and stood up to get her coat and bag.

“Great. Well, that’s you two. We’ll sort any new enquiries, paperwork and other bits and pieces of surveillance between us and catch up again this time next week. Now…pub?”

* * *

Ensconced in a corner booth at the Tottenham, Barclay turned to Hutchins as they waited for Strike and Robin to come back with their drinks. “What d’ye reckon this is about then?”

Hutchins looked at him quizzically. “Why does it have to be about something? It’s not unheard of for us to end up here on a Friday evening.”

“It’s not usual for Strike to text and check we can make it though. Something is going on, mark my words,” he said shrewdly, dropping his voice a notch as he saw his bosses approaching. They passed around the drinks and Strike and Robin squeezed into the remaining space on the bench.

“Right lads,” announced Strike. “First things first, we need to raise a toast to our Robin here, who is, as of today…”

“Yesterday, technically,” she interjected.

“Who is, as of yesterday, a free woman again.”

Barclay shot Hutchins a ‘told you so’ look. Robin hadn’t shared any details of her divorce with the two men, but they knew it was happening and out of respect and affection for her, and taking into account a few barbed comments from Strike, had assumed it was because her ex-husband was an arse.

“And...um, there’s something else we need to tell you,” added Robin, glancing at Strike for some much-needed encouragement. He simply smiled down at her and took her hand, where it was resting on the table in full view of their colleagues and anyone else who happened to be passing.

“There were some…developments…over Christmas,” he grinned at Barclay and Hutchins, aware much to his chagrin, that he was definitely blushing slightly.

“Ah…you old dog,” exclaimed Barclay, then turning to Hutchins, “I feckin’ told ya.”

Hutchins rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

“Congratulations,” he said, raising his glass.

“Ditto…about bloody time!” added Barclay.

* * *

Strike felt at least a foot taller as he and Robin walked back to Denmark Street that evening, aware of the envious looks from several other men, but mostly just thrilled to be able to make the journey with Robin snuggled under his arm for the first time, or at least for the first time one of them hadn’t been holding the other one up, drunk and heartbroken.  
The picked up a Chinese takeaway en route which they ate at the chipped formica table in Strike’s combined kitchen/sitting room, before washing up and taking their drinks over to the little two-seater sofa.

“That went well,” said Robin contentedly, putting her wineglass on the side table and curling into Strike’s side as he wrapped one arm around her and reached for the remote control with his other hand.

“Hmmm,” he murmured in agreement, kissing the top of her head, inhaling the warm, familiar scent of shampoo and Robin. “Tell me you’re staying tonight?”

They’d tried to maintain a certain amount of space, and it wasn’t too difficult, given the demands of the job and its erratic hours, but they hadn’t spent the night together since Tuesday and both of them were feeling it.

“Yep, although I’ve left my overnight bag downstairs in the office,” she made to stand up, “I’ll have to pop down and get it.”

Strike held tightly to her hand and pouted up at her. He’d managed to restrain himself all day and most of the evening and he didn’t want to let go of her now.

“I’ve a spare toothbrush,” he said, looking up at her blue grey eyes with dark green ones so dilated they were almost black, “…and I can assure you there won’t be any need for pyjamas.”

The only she sounds she made in response were a brief squeal and a delighted giggle as he pulled her back into his lap and smothered her with kisses.

* * *

Strike woke slowly on Saturday morning and stretched, warm and relaxed, before rolling over and reaching out for Robin. Much to his disappointment, he found her side of the bed empty. His brow furrowed for a moment before he registered the sound of someone moving about in the office below and remembered that she’d left her overnight bag there. He lay back against his pillows and recalled some of the highlights of the previous evening, pondering the chances of an action replay when she returned, huffing when the sound of his mobile ringing interrupted his pleasurable fantasies.

He picked it up and glanced at the screen. It was a call being diverted from the office landline. There had been a time when he would have immediately picked up, but with the agency busier than ever and in the knowledge that nothing urgent was likely to occur relating to their existing cases over the weekend, he let it go to voicemail. A couple of minutes later it went again, and once more he declined. If they called a third time...he thought, as he debated whether to get up and make coffee or avoid the bother of attaching his prosthesis if, as he very much hoped, he wouldn’t be out of bed for too long. In the ensuing quiet he heard the phone in the office ring and Robin answer. She must have taken it off ‘forward’ after hearing his mobile. He sighed slightly but smiled nonetheless. Robin’s dedication to their business was one of the many reasons he loved her, so he could hardly argue with her enthusiasm. A few moments later, he heard her calling up the stairs.

“Cormoran…is there any chance you could pop down and take this? It’s your old uni lecturer, Dr Madison, again. Says it’s urgent.”

Strike had already realised he was unlikely to be able to convince Robin to come back and was half out of bed and attaching his prosthesis when she called. Now his curiosity was piqued as he recalled a number of messages left by Dr Madison over the Christmas period. Both he and Robin had tried repeatedly to return her calls but not managed to get hold of her. As she hadn't followed up, he'd assumed it was nothing significant.

“Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll be down. Is she on hold?”

“Yep, I said you’d call her back, but she said she’d rather wait.”

Strike rolled his eyes and reached for his clothes.


	2. Dreaming Spires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin meets with Caroline Ingles before she and Strike take a road trip to meet with his old professor, now the Principal of his former college, St Hugh's. They discover why Dr Genevieve Madison is so concerned, and why she's enlisting their help rather than that of the police.  
> Whether or not to take the case is a more difficult decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caroline Ingles occurs not infrequently in the books. Whether that's for a reason we're yet to discover or not, who knows, but I though she deserved a bit more attention.

The expression on Caroline Ingles’ face as she lowered herself onto the sofa next to Robin was a mixture of trepidation and embarrassment.

With the rest of the team out for the afternoon, Robin had decided a more informal setting, within easier reach of kettle and bathroom may be better choice for revelations ahead. She knew from experience that clients throwing up or passing out in the event of extreme shock was far from unusual. One man had even had a minor heart attack on learning of his wife’s affair.

Even after three years she found Caroline something of an enigma - a women who had at her disposal all the privileges that came with her husband’s wealth, but seemed largely disinterested in them, yet forgave him time and again for his infidelities. She had mentioned in passing that she had met Robert Ingles during Freshers’ Week at university and had been with him ever since. Robin wondered if her forgiveness was born more of love, or of fear of being alone for the first time in her adult life.

When she arrived, Robin sat her down with a cup of tea, and discreetly ensured that the tissues and wastepaper bin were in easy reach. “It’s not good news, is it?” said Caroline, tucking a strand of greying, mousy hair behind one ear, revealing a gold and turquoise earring shaped like a tiny dreamcatcher, which seemed strangely incongruous on such a middle-class woman in her mid-forties.

Robin smiled sympathetically. “I’m afraid not,” she agreed, picking up the file of paperwork from the coffee table.

“I don’t need to see the proof,” said Caroline quietly, “Not yet anyway. Just tell what he’s doing this time…or who.”

It was the first time Robin had detected anger rather than resignation in her tone and she wondered whether this was a good or a bad thing in the circumstances.

“You recall asking us to follow Robert about eighteen months ago,” Robin began. Caroline nodded.

“He was having an affair with that junior associate at his law firm,” she confirmed, “But it blew itself out within a few months, I knew it would. And she moved away, he can’t be seeing her again.”

“I don’t believe he has resumed the affair, no, but she is living in Surrey now and he is in contact with her.”

Caroline looked confused.

“Why would he be in contact with her again if there’s nothing in it for him?”

“Since leaving the firm, Miss Williams has had a baby. He’s now six months old,” Robin felt her stomach flip as she saw the realisation dawn on Caroline Ingles face which was rapidly draining of colour. Delivering this kind of blow never really got any easier.

“And you think the baby is Robert’s?”

“We’ve carried out extensive searches. The timeline is correct, and he’s named on the birth certificate - that's only possible if he's gone with her to register the child, or given a statutory declaration of parentage for her to take along. You’d need a DNA test to be completely sure of course, but it seems highly unlikely that he's not the father.. We’ve also discovered that your husband set up an additional bank account some eight months ago…”

“He said he was doing some kind of investment scheme through work.”

“He’s having part of his salary deducted at source straight into that account. There are regular monthly payments going out to Miss Williams. I’m very sorry, Mrs Ingles.”

Caroline sat, head bowed over the mug of tea that she was clutching tightly in both hands, her nose reddening as she fought to prevent tears spilling down her face. She took a large mouthful of her drink and swallowed noisily past the lump in her throat.

“The evidence is in there, yes?” she nodded at the folder on Robin’s lap.

“Yes, it’s all in here. Photographs, bank statements, a copy of the…”

“Right.” Caroline cut her off abruptly as if hearing the words ‘birth certificate’ might just be the final straw that broke her. She rummaged in her handbag, pulling out her smartphone. “Thank you. If you have my invoice to hand, I’ll transfer your payment now.”

“I’ll just have to print it off,” Robin paused. “I’m sure this has been a terrible shock. Would you like some more tea, or maybe I can call someone for you?”

She mused that she shouldn’t have been surprised by the intensity of Caroline Ingles’ reaction, but so many times previously she had delivered, or heard Strike’s tales of delivering news of her husband’s affairs, only to be met with denial or resignation, that she hadn’t expected this.

Caroline looked up at Robin, eyes glittering with quiet anger.

“Don’t suppose you have the number of a decent divorce lawyer, do you?” she half-quipped.

Robin looked at her thoughtfully.

“I do as a matter of fact…” she pulled the invoice from the printer and handed it over, unsure whether it would be unprofessional or helpful to give Caroline the card for which she had no further use as of the previous Friday. The older woman looked at her expectantly.

“Really?”

“I’ve clung on and on for the sake of our own kids. They’re all grown up now, give or take. The youngest started uni last year. All I do is sit around, some poor excuse for a trophy wife, which I’ve always fucking hated by the way…” she spat. “We’ve been unhappy for years…obviously, barely anything in common. And he’ll never throw the towel in…too much to lose, money, his precious family man image. Well he can do that with her now if that’s what he wants. What’s the solicitor’s name?”

Robin already had the slightly tattered card to hand and passed it to Caroline, who read the name aloud.

“Helen Wagstaffe…”

“She’s a friend of a friend,” Robin told her, “Comes with my personal recommendation,” she added ruefully.

“Thanks,” replied Caroline, getting to her feet and picking up the file. She was about to head for the door when she turned around and gave Robin a brief, impulsive hug. “I guess I won’t be seeing you again now I’ve finally come to my senses. All the best Robin, and I hope you find someone who truly deserves you.”

Robin smiled back warmly. “Oh, I have,” she replied.

* * *

She was thinking much the same later that evening as she watched Strike stack the dishwasher in her kitchen after polishing off second helpings of homemade shepherd’s pie.  
“You’re very well house trained,” she observed appreciatively.  
  
“Army…and Auntie Joan,” he laughed. “How did it go with Caroline Ingles today?”  
  
“Bit shit…it’s one thing knowing your husband is having affairs but fathering a child with someone else is a whole other level of betrayal. She actually asked if I knew any good divorce lawyers.”  
  
Strike eyebrows shot up. “Bloody hell! What did you say?”  
  
“I gave her Helen’s card,” she shrugged. “I think she has actually had enough now. Anyway, tell me more about this professor we’re meeting tomorrow.”  
  
“She’s not a professor…well, she is, but she’s the Principal of St Hugh’s College. She was my tutor when I was at Oxford, which is why she contacted us.”  
  
“I don’t understand why she didn’t call the police, or why she’s being so cagey about what’s going on. Paying us to go there for the day rather than telling us what’s been going on over the phone seems pretty OTT.”  
  
“I don’t think finances are as much a consideration as discretion, which isn’t something they can guarantee with police involvement. They won’t want any bad publicity if it’s avoidable.”  
  
“I s’pose,” agreed Robin, somewhat doubtfully. “It’ll be nice to have bit of road trip anyway.”  
  
“Have we got snacks?” asked Strike hopefully.  
  
“Cormoran, it’s only just over an hour’s drive!”  
  
“And your point is?”  
  
“Yes, we’ve got snacks,” she laughed, getting to her feet and taking his hand, “Now let’s make the most of having the sitting room to ourselves for a boxset before Gary comes in and takes over the telly.”

* * *

They made good time the following morning with Robin behind the wheel of Strike’s BMW, arriving at the college a quarter of an hour early for their appointment with Dr Madison. They parked nearby and headed to the College Lodge building to sign in, where to their surprise they found Dr Genevieve Madison already waiting for them.  
  
She was a petite woman, barely over five feet tall, with a pale, scrubbed complexion, shoulder length grey hair and china blue eyes that would have exuded warmth had she not appeared so on edge. She was dressed in black dress dotted with tiny white birds, which she wore with a smart black jacket, opaque tights and patent leather brogues.  
  
“Welcome,” she said quietly, extending a hand first to Strike, then Robin. “If you follow me, we’ll go straight to my office.” She leaned towards them and lowered her voice even further. “There have been…developments…overnight.”  
  
Strike and Robin exchanged a curious glance as they fell into step with Dr Madison, who made small talk as they traversed the immaculate walkways between buildings, lined with neatly kept flower beds full of evergreen shrubs. She urged them both to call her Genevieve rather than Dr Madison, and asked Strike if this was his first time back at the college since his premature departure, to which he replied in the affirmative.  
  
Once ensconced in her office, Genevieve left them briefly alone to organise coffee. It appeared that even her PA was unaware of her guests or the reason for their visit. Robin took in their surroundings which were neither as old fashioned nor as quintessentially English as she had expected. Two large windows to their right overlooked mature trees and an expanse of lawn and the pale sage green walls reflected the view. Behind the large desk at which they sat was a substantial leather swivel chair, upholstered in tan leather and the entirety of the back wall was given oven to floor to ceiling pale oak bookshelves, which were crammed to overflowing. The walls held an assortment of photographs, many featuring Dr Madison in various exotic locations, accompanied by colleagues or students. These were interspersed with artefacts including tribal masks and headdresses, Australian Aboriginal paintings, large shells, and strings of beads.  
  
“What did you study at Oxford?” asked Robin, realising that even since they’d been a couple the question hadn’t arisen. Strike’s university years were something she tended to steer clear of, tainted as they were by memories of Charlotte and the loss of his mother.  
  
“Social Anthropology,” he replied, his mouth twitching upwards slightly at her surprised expression.  
  
“Blimey!” She gathered herself just as Genevieve returned to the room carrying a tray of coffee mugs and a plate of biscuits.  
  
Genevieve settled herself in the chair on the other side of the desk, took a sip of coffee, then set her mug aside, steepling her fingertips and frowning as she appeared to wonder where to start.  
  
“I’m sorry to drag you all the way here with scant information,” she began, “But I’m sure you’ll appreciate the need for discretion. We’re obviously a very well-known institution and we’ve come in for our fair share of bad press in recent years…the Bullingdon Club, admissions policy issues, maintenance problems that kind of thing. We don’t need any more negative attention if we can possibly avoid it.”  
  
Strike nodded reassuringly through a mouthful of chocolate digestive. Robin, pushed to the back of her mind the thought that the bad publicity Genevieve spoke of had been, in her opinion, richly deserved.  
  
“Last October, on Halloween, our caretaker heard a disturbance in the grounds late at night and went to investigate. The noise was coming from a small secluded area at the back of some outbuildings, but whoever was there must have heard him or seen the light from his torch. He heard them run off, but they left several candles burning. He went back the following day and discovered what was left of a circle of salt and some burnt out patches of grass. There was a small quantity of what appeared to be dried blood within the circle.”  
  
Robin’s expression was inscrutable. Strike, who was taking notes in his spidery handwriting, urged Genevieve to continue.  
  
“We assumed, given the date, that it was just kids messing about, but a few weeks later we received several reports of someone loitering in the grounds after dark wearing a mask.”  
  
Strike felt Robin tense next to him and realised that he wanted nothing more than to reach for her hand or pull her into his arms, to check she was okay and comfort her if necessary. This was a difficulty of them being in a relationship and working together that he hadn’t anticipated. Sitting to his right, Robin noticed his hand twitch and flex and glanced at him, trying to convey without words that whilst she might not be okay, she was coping.  
  
“What kind of mask?” she asked Genevieve, her voice coming out closer to a whisper than she would have liked. Her heart was hammering so hard in her chest she was surprised it wasn’t audible.  
  
“It had horns…possibly a ram or a goat seems to be the general consensus. There were five sightings during the latter half of November.”  
  
“And did this person approach anyone that you’re aware of?” queried Strike.  
  
“On the contrary, those who saw him said he seemed keen to get away when he realised he’d been spotted. Obviously, it still gave those concerned quite a fright.”  
  
“You said ‘him’,” interjected Robin, “Can any of the witnesses be sure it was a man they saw?”  
  
“No, but again the consensus was that the person was very tall, and their posture seemed to indicate a male.”  
  
“CCTV?” asked Strike.  
  
“Nothing. We also carried out searches of some students’ rooms. There’s a Wiccan club that was formed last year and with the mask and the Halloween goings on we thought they might be connected. All the members are young women though, and the room checks turned up nothing beyond incense and crystals, although we did have to confiscate an athame and a small quantity of cannabis from one student.”  
  
“Anyway, Cormoran,” she continued, “It was playing on my mind between Christmas and New Year when I originally called you, but then nothing more seemed to happen for a bit, and I was on a lecture tour until a couple of weeks ago…”  
  
“But things have kicked off again?” he surmised.  
  
“Yes. The students had exams before Christmas and I came back before the results were sent out. A few of our tutors are notorious for tough marking, and within twenty-fours hours of the results being published, they all found these,” she passed Robin a handful of photos printed on standard white copier paper.”  
  
The photos had been taken in various offices and homes, and each one showed a roughly torn piece of parchment, bearing a bizarre and complex doodle. Even at a quick glance it was clear that they hadn’t been printed, but hand drawn. On closer inspection it seemed likely that they had not all been created by the same hand. Robin was completely mystified but she could almost hear Strike’s brain turning over, and the way Genevieve was looking at him expectantly confirmed her suspicion that he recognised the image in front of them. He frowned and raised his eyes to Dr Madison’s.  
  
“It’s a demonic sigil isn’t it?”  
  
“Yes, the sigil of Asmodeus.”  
  
“Sorry, it’s a what of who?” asked Robin.  
  
“A sigil is a symbol which is believed to have magical power. In the 17th century a grimoire – a kind of spell book - was compiled from various sources believed to be hundreds   
of years old. It comprised five parts, one of which was the Ars Goetia which categorised all the demons and their sigils. Asmodeus is the one responsible for revenge.”  
  
Robin was listening, wide eyed. “So, you’re saying these notes are basically threatening letters?”  
  
“It appears so. And again, to be honest we took them with a pinch of salt. It’s not unheard of for disgruntled students to play pranks on tutors…”  
  
“But…?” Strike interjected.  
  
“One of the tutors that received a letter went out in his car last night. He got to the end of the road before realising his brakes weren’t working. We’ve received confirmation this morning that the cables were severed deliberately.”  
  
“Shit!” exclaimed Robin quietly, then “Sorry…it’s the sort of thing you see on telly. Is he ok?”  
  
“Yes, fortunately. He lives in a quiet area and managed to steer into a ditch at the side of a country lane. You can see why we need to get to the bottom of this as quickly and discreetly as possible.”  
  
Strike drained his cup of coffee, sighed and sat back in his seat.  
  
“To be honest Dr Madison…Genevieve, I would really urge you to reconsider police involvement. Someone could have been killed last night and not just your member of staff. These clearly aren’t empty threats and we simply don’t have the manpower or resources to resolve this at the kind of speed that could prevent a worse outcome in the event of another incident.”  
  
Genevieve Madison fixed Strike and Robin with a determined look.  
  
“I understand what you are saying, and to that end I have had an emergency meeting this morning with the members of staff involved. They all feel the same way about the matter being dealt with discreetly. We’ll be putting additional security measures in place in the meantime and they are happy with that for the time being.”  
  
Strike rubbed a large hand across his face and looked at Robin. She turned back to Genevieve and gave her a smile that she hoped was both reassuring and non-committal.  
  
“I think we need to take some time to discuss this, if that’s okay? Are you free this afternoon if we slip away for lunch and a chat and come back about 2.30pm?”  
  
Genevieve paused for a second then nodded.  
  
“Very well. I do appreciate it’s a…strange situation, and out of your way, but I’d really appreciate your help. You know the fees aren’t an issue and we will do whatever we can to facilitate the investigation if you agree to take it on.”  
  
“Apart from involve the police,” stated Strike, archly.  
  
Genevieve didn’t reply directly but got to her feet to open her office door and show them out.  
  
“I’ll meet you back at the lodge again at 2.30.”


	3. A Necessary Evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin and Strike discuss the pros and cons of taking the Oxford case and come to a decision that will force Strike to manage his protective streak.
> 
> Hutchins and Barclay drop in for an update on their cases.

The Rose and Crown, a five-minute walk from St Hugh’s, was little changed since Strike’s university days. A fresh coat of pale pink paint on the exterior belied the traditional working men’s pub vibe inside the old building. Mismatched dark wood furniture filled the maze of small rooms with their low beamed ceilings, half-panelled walls and tiny windows. A fire burned in the grate of the biggest room, and the noticeboard was filled with flyers about the local darts team, and photos of locals visiting other pubs across the world that shared the moniker. In one corner, an ancient bookcase stood, crammed with battered volumes ranging from the Good Ale Guide to a book on the operettas of Gilbert and Sullivan. Smiling, Strike reached for an apparently little thumbed Latin dictionary, opened it and looked at the publishing date on the inner flyleaf.

“I swear I read this exact book when I was here,” he commented, with a chuckle.

Watching him, Robin felt a strange sense of combined pleasure at seeing his comfort in his surroundings, and unease. She couldn’t define a reason for the latter, the closest thing she could liken it to was being firmly on someone else’s territory. Deciding the feeling was irrational and probably best left well alone, she headed to the bar to order drinks and collect menus.

Five minutes later, having deposited a pint of Old Hooky and a glass of orange juice at the table, and ordered their meal at the bar, she dropped into the seat opposite Strike, who was still engrossed in the Latin dictionary. She watched him for several moments until he registered her eyes on him and looked up.

“Sorry…” he apologised, picking up his pint and taking a large swig.

She shrugged. “S’okay. This must be weird for you. Have you really never been back since…”

“No,” he stated, matter-of-fact, “Never had any reason to…until now.” Never wanted to either, he thought, but with one call from Dr Madison his curiosity had overwhelmed the bad memories that he associated with the place, and the good ones that he'd finally laid to rest.

“Do you want to take the case?” She took a sip of orange juice, and wished that it was cool, white wine.

“From the point of view that it’s interesting and will pay well, yeah, I do…”

“But?”

“It’s a tricky one. The lack of police involvement doesn’t thrill me. If there are more incidents and the outcome isn’t so good next time, I wouldn’t want it coming back on us. And we’ll probably need to put someone in St Hugh’s full time, undercover, which will be challenging.”

“We could get Dr Madison to sign a disclaimer stating that we advised police involvement and they chose not to take that advice. Why would it be so problematic to put someone in undercover?” Robin wanted to hear his reasoning before she played her hand.

“Realistically speaking, we need someone who could pass for a student, who has the investigative skills but would also be able to cope with the study. Obviously, they wouldn’t have to do it for real, but they’d need to be convincing in lectures, and we’d need them in there as soon as possible.”

“You know they do three different types of psychology degree at St Hugh’s,” Robin said, quietly, toying with her coaster.

Strike eyed her warily.

“I have the subject knowledge and the investigative skills, and I’ve just wrapped the Ingles case so I’m basically good to go...” she paused momentarily, before adding with grin, “…and don’t forget I’ve got a few weeks experience in the Wiccan shop in Camden under my belt.”

She had that determined look on her face, and although the idea of Robin taking the lead on the job had already occurred to him, his heart sank. He’d be sending her into a risky situation again, miles from home, with all the associated triggers from her own time at university ever present. He knew how capable she was, but he’d felt and seen her reaction when Genevieve had mentioned the mask-wearing man, and the protective instincts that he’d harboured long before she was his girlfriend as well as business partner had surged.

“We’ve had this conversation before Cormoran, you can’t stop me from doing things because they are outside your comfort zone. You know what I’m saying makes sense.”

His reply was delayed by the arrival of their food. Strike concentrated on slathering his sausages with English mustard, while he attempted to formulate an acceptable response.

“I don’t want to stop you doing anything,” he said eventually, “But I do want to make sure you’re as safe as possible...” He reached a hand across the table to take hers. “…and I won’t apologise for that. I love you Robin, all I want is for you to be happy...and safe.”

She smiled, thawing a little.

“So, trust me. Trust that I can handle this, okay?”

Mouth full of sausage, he nodded, somewhat reluctantly.

“I love you too, Cormoran Blue Strike,” she added.

* * *

They returned to St Hugh’s and an anxious Genevieve Madison a couple of hours later. Once they were back in her office, Strike confirmed that he and Robin had discussed the case and agreed to take it on, with the proviso that a disclaimer was signed regarding the lack of police involvement. He was also insistent that Robin had somewhere safe to stay and work whilst she was working undercover.

Genevieve made the call to the student accommodation immediately, informed them that they had a new student starting unexpectedly and she needed a space in halls. Luckily someone had dropped out the previous week and a room was available in the Wolfson building.

“You’ll have a bedroom there and there are a couple of bathrooms and a kitchen between eight student rooms. It’s mostly second years and few Freshers so should suit quite well – you can pick up the keys from the Lodge when you arrive. Now…” Genevieve reached into her drawer and pulled out another key on a red, acrylic tag, “…you’ll need somewhere to work on the case and keep anything related where privacy and security is guaranteed. We have a studio which is available for post-grad students, The Stable. It’s been under refurbishment so hasn’t been let this term. I’ll get the Premises team to tie up any loose ends as a priority, although you’ll have to take care to ensure no-one sees you accessing it.”

“Not a problem,” confirmed Robin, accepting the key. She could feel excitement fizzing through her veins at the thought of what she was about to embark on, all the qualms of earlier in the day now a distant memory.

Strike watched her with a mixture of pride and trepidation. It was wonderful to see her enthusiasm and confidence shining through, but his anxiety about her wellbeing couldn’t be entirely assuaged, and it was beginning to dawn on him how much he would miss her too. Although they didn’t spend every night together, they’d not spent more than three consecutive nights apart since their relationship had begun over a month earlier. Still, he reminded himself, it was a necessary evil and their weekend reunions – other cases permitting - would be all the sweeter for the enforced separations in between.

They began their journey home a while later, having put as many arrangements in place as possible and with a file of photos, notes and other evidence relating to the case.  
They talked at length about the case before falling into a companionable silence as they neared London. After a while Robin became aware of Strike’s eyes on her.

“What?” she asked him, smiling good-naturedly.

He smiled back, blushing a little at having been caught out.

“I just like watching you drive,” he admitted, “It’s very, very sexy seeing you in control of a car.”

Robin smirked, “I might have to store that control comment away for future reference,” she teased, “…but for now you’d best stop distracting me with that kind of talk or I’ll miss our turn off.”

He grinned, unwrapped another toffee and gave a brief, sharp intake of breath as she ran her tongue lightly over his fingertip as he fed it to her whilst she drove onward.

* * *

The remainder of the week passed far too quickly for both of them, taking into account the enforced separation they had to look forward to. For the most part Robin worked on the Oxford case, liaising directly with Genevieve to obtain any further information necessary prior to her arrival at St Hugh’s. She and Strike alternated between his flat and hers, wanting to make the most of the remaining opportunity to do so, but also so she could keep him up to date with how things were developing. His knowledge of the university, it’s culture and hierarchies, was invaluable in terms of Robin being able to understand the kind of environment she would be entering and the people she would be encountering. She had been to a Russell Group University herself and mixed with students and lecturers from varied backgrounds, but Strike’s stories made her head spin. She wondered, not for the first time, how someone whose childhood had been such a dichotomy between chaotic, city life with Leda, and the gentle, village centred upbringing he’d had with Ted and Joan had ever managed to fit in with the likes of Charlotte Campbell and Jago Ross.

Strike continued to deal with new enquiries and the outstanding smaller jobs they had on. Normally he would have been a little frustrated with the lack of a significant case of his own, but he found he was quite content to be Robin’s ‘sidekick’ for a change. He tried to mentally assign the feeling to having run the agency at full throttle, often singlehandedly over the last four years and being in need of a much needed break, but in the brief moments when he was alone and allowed his thoughts to wander, he knew it had more to do with him wanting to be available if Robin should need him.

On Friday, Barclay and Hutchins arrived in the office at 4pm for their usual weekly briefing. Barclay’s assistance with Shanker’s ‘project’ had been greatly appreciated and Strike’s old friend had agreed to give them three, rather then two freebies in return, once Robin had had a quiet word with him. It was no secret he had a soft spot for her, and in turn she viewed him as a kind of particularly wayward bonus older brother, although she wasn’t sure what Stephen would have made of the comparison.

Barclay had spent the remainder of the week at the building site which was apparently being burgled and vandalised on a regular basis, and had already furnished a notebook with several pages of neatly handwritten notes on the comings and goings of his various new colleagues.

“Nice handwriting,” commented Robin, surprised and impressed as she took the book and photocopied the relevant pages.

“Aye,” agreed Barclay, “It was a big thing at my primary school, we had competitions and everything. Wasn’t always so good at the academic stuff but I wield a mean fountain pen!” he joked.

Hutchins was still at the Sixth Form college, and thanked Robin profusely for the biscuits suggestion, which had ingratiated him with several members of staff and led to some interesting revelations about Mr Chips. With the mock exams recently finished, he had begun offering private tutoring to some of his students, but it appeared that he was very selective regarding exactly which ones, and they were almost exclusively female and attractive. Hutchins had been invited to join his department on a two night residential in Scotland the following weekend, and it was agreed that, given his health issues, he would take some time off either side to enable him to attend and keep an eye on his quarry.  
When all the contractors’ news had been caught up with, Strike sat back in his chair and told them about the Oxford case. He pulled a photo from the file and handed it to Barclay.

“They obviously know their way around an engine,” he stated, looked at the severed cables, “…or they’ve done their homework, most people wouldn’t have a clue what they were doing, but…”

Strike and Robin exchanged a glance then looked back at him expectantly.

“…they’ve no used the right tools. It looks like it’s been done with a knife rather than proper cutters, and not one with a particularly sharp blade either…”

“That’s what I said,” exclaimed Robin. “And Genevieve mentioned they’d confiscated an athame from one of the students. The purpose of an athame is to draw magic shapes and conduct energy, not to cut, so most are relatively blunt. What with all the demon sigils and salt circles and candles, I wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised if that’s what they’d used, so I’m going to start by trying to get to know the girl who had hers confiscated.”

“Ye think a wee girl did this?” Barclay looked dubious.

“I think her knife, or one like it may have been used.”

“But her knife was confiscated?”

“Yep, and has since gone missing, which also opens up the possibility that it’s not a student doing this.”

“Holy shit.”

“I know right?” Robin was beaming.

Strike rolled his eyes.

“Anyway, Robin’s moving into halls of residence on Sunday and joining the second year Psychology degree course in Monday afternoon. I may look at getting a temp in going forward, but we’ll see how things go this week on the admin front first. I must admit I don’t fancy having another random on board after the debacle that was Denise last year.”

He rose to his feet.

“Anyway, that’s enough of that for now. Enjoy your weekend’s guys, we need to get off. Curry night awaits.”

And with that Barclay and Hutchins headed home, and Robin and Strike headed upstairs to get ready for a night with the Herberts.


	4. Curry Night & Camden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike and Robin catch up with the Herberts and take a trip to Camden Market to shop for Robin's undergraduate alter ego, Rosie Swann.

Ilsa Herbert was looking forward to seeing her friends that evening after a gruelling few weeks. Having tried without success for years to have a baby, she and her husband Nick had been accepted for a course of treatment that would hopefully enable them to have a much longed for child of their own.

After a barrage of invasive tests, which eventually showed that they appeared to be suffering from the spectacularly unhelpfully titled ‘unexplained infertility’, extensive research into their options, the regular monitoring of Ilsa’s cycle, hormone levels, ovulation patterns, temperature and bodily fluids, and Nick getting frequent urgent calls to get home as soon as possible because the magic window of timing was right, they had thought they had some idea of what they were letting themselves in for when they started the course of treatment.

They had been wrong.

The one thing Ilsa hadn’t considered was just how brutal the impact would be of the drugs she needed to take to stimulate her ovaries and therefore increase their chances of conceiving. They weren't compulsory, but as she was approaching forty, Ilsa had determined to try everything possible in a bid for success. She had, in a brief, desperate text to Robin, described the side effects as ‘like the worst PMS you could possibly imagine’, but to be honest, it hadn’t even scratched the surface.

The constant nausea wasn’t pleasant, but it was bearable, and Ilsa reminded herself frequently that she might have to put up with during pregnancy, if it happened, so she may as well get used to it. The agonizingly painful breasts were not much fun for her (or Nick, who was most definitely a boob man!), but again, she thought of the impact of pregnancy and resigned herself to it. The upset stomach was disruptive, but the headaches…

She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples at the mere thought. Headaches were a normal side effect, but in Ilsa’s case they had taken the form of a crushing four-day migraine which kicked in the day after she started the tablets. It was almost unfathomable to her how a tiny, white pill could wreak so much havoc on her body, and she was eternally grateful that she had a week’s annual leave booked, and sympathetic bosses.

Nick, she thought, somewhat resentfully, had only had to endure the indignity of wanking into a cup although, she reminded herself, he had looked after her, and loved her and reassured that everything she was going through was normal and that, she supposed, was not be sniffed at, given he had borne the brunt of the mood swings that had accompanied her physical symptoms on the rare occasions she’d had enough energy to give vent to them.

They would find out the following Tuesday if the treatment had been successful. Their chances, taking into account their ages, were around 40%, and then she would have to get through the pregnancy, a thought that terrified her. They had conceived naturally on one occasion, but she had miscarried within days of the positive test result. She knew that the anxiety wouldn’t leave her until she was holding a live, healthy baby in her arms.

She also knew that if it hadn’t worked, she would have to go through it all again the next month…and the next…and the next.

For now though, the medication was out of her system and she felt better than she had in weeks. Her husband had a precious Friday night off and their best friends were on their way over. All was right with the world.

* * *

Later that evening, when the curry had been eaten, Robin shooed Ilsa into the sitting room whilst she helped Nick to clear up and stack the dishwasher. Strike thought briefly about heading out into the garden for a cigarette, but he’d been doing well with his New Year’s resolution to stop smoking he decided against it, opting instead to take the opportunity of a chat with Ilsa.

He sank down into a comfy armchair and flipped the top off his third bottle of Doom bar as Ilsa settled on the sofa opposite with her mug of peppermint tea.

“How’s it going?” he asked her.

She paused before answering, gathering her thoughts.

“Challenging, to be honest, but it’s our best chance. It’ll be worth it…hopefully.”

He nodded slowly, detecting the anxiety in her voice.

“I don’t want to talk about it too much,” she continued, “It’s nothing personal, and it’s really silly but I feel like the more we acknowledge it’s happening the more likely we’ll jinx it. And it’s pressure you know, we don’t want loads of people wondering if it’s worked or feeling like we have to give progress reports.”

“I get it,” replied Strike, “…and I promise I am very much not interested in the gory details! Robin mentioned you’d had a hard time with the drugs though.”

“Yeah, but it’s five days a month so…” she looked down guiltily and chewed her lip. “Corm, I know it probably wouldn’t even occur to you to mention it, but don’t say anything to Ted and Joan if you speak to them. We haven’t told my family what we’re doing, you know what they’re like.”

Strike did indeed know what Ilsa’s family were like. They were lovely, warm, generous people all of whom still lived in the tiny village of St Mawes, and who were incredibly tight knit. They would want nothing but the very best for Ilsa…and would see nothing wrong in virtually suffocating her trying to prove it.

“’Course not,” he reassured her, reaching over and giving her hand a squeeze.

She took another sip of tea and set her mug down on the coffee table.

“So…Oxford?” she raised an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, Oxford,” Strike repeated, unable to conceal his warring feelings on the subject that was currently taking up more of his brain space than it probably deserved.

“How was it?”

“It was interesting, a lot has changed in twenty-odd years, but y’know, it’s Oxford so a hell of a lot has stayed the same.”

“Enough to bring back some memories?”

He gave Ilsa a reproachful look. Sometimes he could do without her knowing him quite so well.

“I’m never not going to associate that place with the death of my mum…”

“…and with Charlotte,” interjected Ilsa.

He sighed and took a long pull on his beer.

“They’re just memories,” he replied, “I wouldn’t change what I have now with Robin for the world, but…it’s complicated.”

Ilsa shuffled closer and took his hand gently.

“Of course it is. She was your first love and she’s intrinsically linked to that time when you lost your mum, then again to when you lost your leg…”

The third ‘loss’ hung in the air between them, if indeed it have ever existed in the first place. Strike shook his head. He would probably never know the truth, but it didn’t matter now.

“I’m worried about Robin. She’s so confident, sure she can handle it all, but once she’s there, in halls…there are nine staircases in the Wolfson Building…” he pursed his lips, “You know…it happened in a stairwell…the attack.”

“Has she told you she’s concerned?”

“Nope, not said a thing. There’s something else. They’ve seen a man on site wearing a mask.”

“Not a gorilla mask?”

“No, but still…she definitely tensed up when it was mentioned.”

Ilsa regarded her old friend thoughtfully for several seconds.

“You still tense up when someone unfamiliar is driving you, or when you hear a sudden load noise. It’s obviously not pleasant for you but it doesn’t mean you can’t handle it. Would you appreciate someone stopping you doing things because of your reactions?”

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” he grumbled.

“I’m on both your sides. Robin will do a bloody marvellous job as always, you’ve said it yourself, she knows how to manage the risks. As for you, you know we’re here for you, don’t you, regardless of what’s going on with us at the moment?”

He looked at her quizzically.

“Why would I need…?”

Ilsa shook her head, frustrated but affectionate.

“We just are, okay?”

“Okay.”

* * *

Strike and Robin headed back to her flat that night, and spent a leisurely Saturday morning reading the news over brunch before heading out to shop for the things she needed for the job she was about to embark on. They went to Camden first, where they trawled the market stalls for suitable clothing and accessories for a slightly goth, slightly mature student. It wasn’t the easiest look to get right and Strike was grateful to sit down on a conveniently positioned bench as Robin took an armful of clothes into what could only be described as a miniature circus tent for a trying on session.

He had just pulled his phone out of his pocket to read a message from Lucy that he’d ignored earlier on, when a familiar, yet unexpected voice came from behind him.

“Cormoran?”

He cringed slightly. It had been almost six months since he had last seen Lorelei and their relationship had not ended well. Unsure whether to expect a friendly greeting or a public bollocking, he stood and turned to face her.

“Lorelei…” his slightly sheepish expression turned rapidly to one of relief when he realised she was standing hand in hand with a man who was clearly her boyfriend, “How are you?”

“I’m really good Corm,” she replied, smiling at him with genuine happiness. “This is Adrian,” she introduced her companion.

“Good to meet you mate,” he extended a thoroughly tattooed arm and bestowed a powerful handshake. Strike was impressed. Adrian was only a little shorter than Strike himself, dressed in casual but colourful clothes and wearing black rimmed glasses. His mop of glossy hair, styled in a quiff, and abundant but well-kempt beard were glossy auburn. He looked as perfect a fit for Lorelei as Strike could have imagined.

“I really pleased you’re keeping well Lorelei,” said Strike sincerely, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek.

“I am,” she beamed, “…and how about you?”

It was at the precise moment that Robin burst out of the changing tent.

“What do you think?” she asked Strike, twirling to show off the long, full skirt to full effect and in doing so not registering Lorelei and Adrian at first. When she came to a halt she found not one, but three pairs of eyes staring at her.

“Lorelei…hi, how are you?”

“I’m good Robin. That looks fantastic on you. Not your normal style though, is it?”

“No…it’s for a job. S’comfy though, I could get used to it.”

Robin was aware that her cheeks were flaming. She’d always felt slightly uncomfortable around Lorelei at the best of times and this was about the most awkward situation she could imagine. She watched as Lorelei’s sharp eyes noticed the absence of her wedding and engagement rings and looked sardonically at Strike.

He shrugged ruefully in response, and Robin held her breath for several long seconds. Adrian had wandered off to look at guitar straps on a stall nearby.

“Well…” sighed Lorelei, “Thank God for that. It took the two of you long enough,” she waited for Robin to return to the dressing room before adding quietly to Strike, “At least now you won’t be hurting anyone else trying to distract yourself.”

“I am sorry Lorelei,” he stated, feeling a little ashamed of himself. “For what it’s worth…”

“Don’t,” she stopped him. “It was the right thing for both of us. I did love you, but it would never have worked.”

“But it works with Adrian?”

“It does,” she smiled, looking over at him, then briefly back at Strike. “See you around.”

***

After Camden they headed to Oxford Street where Robin picked up more clothes, coloured contact lenses, stationery and toiletries. Strike trailed after her around Boots, wondering exactly how he had reached a point that he was entirely happy to spend his afternoon shopping. She stopped at the hair dyes section and began perusing the boxes, finally selecting a dark brown shade and throwing it into her basket. Strike groaned aloud.

“Couldn’t you just wear a wig?” he grumbled. “You know how much I love your hair.”

“I can hardly wear a wig in halls when I’m using shared facilities twenty-four-seven can I? It’s going to be tricky enough with the lenses.”

Strike pouted and sighed. She was right, of course, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

“It’s semi-permanent, it’ll come out eventually, or I can get it sorted at the hairdressers once the case is over. Besides, you’re not meant to only fancy me for my hair,” she teased.

“You know that there are a million and one reasons why I fancy you besides your hair, but still, can you hold off dyeing it until the morning?” He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “It’s our last night together for a week and I’d like to make love to you at least once more while you still look like you.”

She turned and kissed him, softly but full of promise.

“I think I can manage that,” she agreed, flashing him her cheekiest smile, “At least once, right?”


	5. At Least Once...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin and Strike make the most of their last night together before she goes undercover in Oxford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no intention whatsoever of going full smut at this stage, but the characters had other plans!

They returned to Robin’s flat loaded with bags and finished her packing. She was reminded of when she actually went to university the first time and felt a wave of sadness wash over her. She had been so very excited. Her A-levels results had been even better than predicted and she’d easily got into her first choice of university. She still remembered the fun she’d had, poring over the Argos catalogue to choose all the basic household bits she’d need, filling cheap picture frames with photos of friends and family, and hunting for fairy lights, throws and cushions to make her room look pretty. She’d googled Wolfson Halls and was somewhat concerned about the standard of the accommodation. It appeared from her research they’d had a lot of maintenance issues over the previous year or two, and she’d wanted to pack some things to make the place feel more like home, but quickly realised that fluffy cushions and fairy lights would probably be somewhat incongruous with the image she was trying to convey. She was hoping to quickly find a way into the Wiccan Club, which seemed the most obvious starting point for the investigation.

“Your place or mine tonight?” Strike slid his arms around her and whispered softly so her flatmate, Gary, who was pottering in the hallway wouldn’t hear.

“Here would be easier, but Gary’s got friends over so…yours?”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” replied Strike, “I want to take you somewhere special tonight, it’ll be easier getting to and from Denmark Street.”

“Oooh, do I need to dress up?”

“Maybe…a bit, if you like. Why don’t you throw some stuff in a bag and we’ll head off, we can both get ready at mine.”

So that’s what they did, before making their way to small but exquisitely decorated restaurant on the outskirts of Covent Garden, where they ate, talked and made the most of their last evening together before the case began in earnest. Robin wore a slinky, midnight blue wrap over dress which clung to her curves and rendered Strike slightly speechless when he first saw her in it, and barely able to take his eyes off her for most of the evening.

By the time they returned to Denmark Street, well fed and pleasantly tipsy, he was desperate to make good on his promise of that afternoon. His mouth was on hers the moment they closed the door to his tiny flat and in a couple of steps they were in the bedroom and he was undressing her. She responded in kind, nimbly working his shirt buttons loose, nibbling and sucking at the firm muscle above his collar bone and making him groan with pleasure.

His hand went around Robin’s back to the fastening of her bra, but remembering his words in the car earlier in the week, she stopped him and pushed him gently but firmly onto the bed, following him down and straddling him, while her small hands held tightly to his wrists. He made no attempt to free himself and she could feel his erection growing harder beneath her.

“I take it you’re in charge tonight then?” he asked, slightly breathless as he looked up at her

“Is that okay?” Robin was still not as confident as she would have liked in the bedroom, although the few weeks she had been with Strike so far had been quite a revelation in terms of her discovering the long hidden sensual side of her character.

“That is very okay,” he replied, “I’ll try my very best to behave.”

“If you don’t, I might just have to tie you up,” she joked, leaning forward to kiss him, but pausing as he immediately replied, “Would you?”

She looked at him, his eyes glittering and almost black with desire, and saw him swallow hard as he held her gaze and she realised he was serious.

“Would you like me to?” Robin could feel her heart pounding, and an unexpected rush of heat went straight to her groin at the though of having Strike completely at her mercy. She flushed, somewhat shocked at how much the idea turned her on.

Strike nodded slowly, “Yes,” he murmured huskily, “I really would.”

“ _Fuck…_ ” Robin’s initial response was barely audible, “We’d best make you a bit more comfortable first then.” She fixed him with the steeliest gaze you could manage under the circumstances, “I take it I can trust you to do as you’re told for the next few minutes?”

He nodded again, his tongue flicking across his lips.

She moved down the bed and slowly, carefully removed his belt, trousers and prosthesis, leaving him wearing just a pair of dark grey jersey boxers which left nothing of his priapic state to the imagination. Then she went to the dressing gown hanging on the door, removed the cord and set about fastening his hands securely to the pine bed frame. She was about to climb back on to the bed when she remembered something. Strike watched as she opened his top drawer and extracted an old airline eye mask that she knew he sometimes wore if he had to sleep during the day after a night’s surveillance. He saw the corner of her mouth twitch upward at his sharp intake of breath, as she moved to slip it into place.

“Comfortable?” she asked.

His felt as if every molecule of blood in his body had gone south and his cock ached agonizingly for her touch but other than that…

“Yes.”

She stood and watched him for several seconds, heightening his anticipation, although the truth was that she wasn’t entirely sure where to start now that he was laying in front of her, unable to do anything but submit to whatever she had planned for him. He squirmed slightly, clearly discomfited by her stillness.

Eventually she straddled his remaining lower leg and slowly stroked her way up his thighs, dragging her nails lightly back down them once she reached the hem of his boxers, then repeating the movement, savouring the sound of his ragged breathing. She moved slowly up his body until she was straddling his hips and rocked her core gently up and down his length, eliciting a hoarse whimper of pleasure, which she caught with her mouth, kissing him deeply and pressing her breasts into his chest. He moaned in frustration at the realisation that she was still wearing her bra.

“You asked for this,” she reminded him hotly in his ear before swiftly tracing her tongue and then her teeth around the lobe and down his neck.

“Jesus…”

She sat up, and carefully, silently removed her bra, bunching it into her hand as she leaned forward again so he wouldn’t hear it drop to the floor. He felt her soft, velvety flesh against his lips…a fingertip? Then he realised it was a nipple and jerked his head up to take it in his mouth, but she was too fast and leaned back out of reach, watching as he tugged at the cord around his wrists.

She couldn’t help but giggle at his reaction.

“Robin you’ll be the death of me at this rate,” he gasped.

She slid a hand up over his torso, fingers tangling in the thick, dark, surprisingly soft hair that covered his chest, coming to rest over his heart, which was thundering like a freight train.

“Your heart seems very much in working order,” she replied, giving his nipple a sharp tweak that made him pull on the restraints again. She wondered how long she could keep this going for, but the truth was she was desperate for more of him. She moved forward again, and this time allowed him to take first one, then the other nipple in his mouth, sighing with pleasure as she felt at first his stubble brushing the sensitive flesh. He kissed and licked them into hard, straining peaks before sucking hungrily on each in turn, revelling in her whimpers and moans of pleasure. She was straddling his stomach and he could feel how tantalizingly hot and wet she was through her thin, satin knickers.  
He released her breast from his mouth and took a couple of seconds to regain his breath and formulate his thoughts and words.

“Robin, I want to taste you.”

She groaned and dropped down against him briefly before raising her head and eyeing his wrists which were fastened to opposite corners of the bed.

“I don’t think that’s going to work unless I untie you.”

“Don’t do that,” his voice was pure gravel, his breathing shaky. “Touch yourself, Robin…and then, let me taste you.”

She shivered at the suggestion, but found herself immediately obeying, sliding two fingers into her underwear, and stroking herself thoroughly before offering her fingers to Strike who gave a hoarse groan as he sucked them slowly into his mouth.

A spasm of pleasure shot through Robin and for a moment she thought she might come there and then. Reclaiming her fingers and sliding back down him she swiftly removed Strike’s boxers, straddled him and lowered herself onto his cock, enjoying his cry of shock as he felt the entire length of his throbbing shaft surrounded by her soft warmth.  
They remained still for a moment, enjoying the simple, yet intense pleasure of joining together at last, then Strike rocked his hips infinitesimally and Robin began to move, her rhythm slow and steady and she slid up and down his hard length.

“Robin…take this eye mask off, please,” Strike begged, “I want to see you.”

She obliged immediately, leaning forward and slipping it over his head so he could watch her moving above him, drinking in the sway of her breasts as she moved and the way her hair shimmered in the lamplight. He tried to consign the scene to his own personal memory bank, a mental image to enjoy on his own should he feel the need whilst Robin was away.

She ground her hips harder against him and he heard her breathing change, knew she was getting closer, but still she paused briefly, gazing down at him with barely focused eyes.

“Can I untie you now?” she asked, “I want your hands on me.”

“God, yes,” he replied. It had been fun, but he was desperate to touch her now, to take her over the edge and then hold her close and come inside her. He wriggled up the bed as best he could, attempting to keep them joined as she untied his wrists with trembling fingers.

As soon as she settled back on him, one of his hands flew to her breasts, stroking and caressing whilst the other found her clit, drawing delicate circles with his thumb until he felt her thighs begin to tremble and her rhythm falter. His other hand fell to her hip, holding her steady as he thrust up into her again and again and again, until her muscles tightened hard around him and he spilled inside her as he listened to the sound of his name, ragged on her lips.


	6. Fresher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin settles into her halls of residence and makes a new friend. The visit to Oxford and Robin's involvement in the case begin to haunt Strike.

After a long and not entirely leisurely lie-in, Robin and Strike headed back to her flat to pick up her things and begin the drive to Oxford, the atmosphere between them somewhat tense. Strike had wanted to go with her and check that the room she had been allocated met his exacting security standards. Robin was having none of it.

“How exactly do you expect that to play out?” she asked him, infuriated, “The place will be teeming with students, and there’s the possibility you’ll be recognised. On site for a meeting with your old tutor is one thing, moving me into halls…you’d blow my cover before I’ve even started.”

He knew she was right, which just made him more annoyed, and he found himself yearning for nicotine, his fingertips twitching in the absence of having a cigarette to fiddle with. Barclay had offered to fix him up with some vaping paraphernalia, but he’d declined, as privately he thought vaping would make him look like a twat. He’d tried gum, but it was revolting, and he knew deep down, it was the routine of smoking he enjoyed as much if not more than the taste and the effect of the chemicals.

He climbed into the driver’s seat of the BMW, insistent that he at least drove her home as she had a longer drive ahead of her. Choosing her battles, she settled into the driver’s seat, opened the glove box and rummaged for the bag of mint humbugs she’d stashed away prior to their trip to meet Genevieve Madison.

“Sweet?” she asked, as he fired up the engine, and he took one from the proffered bag, unwrapped it and popped it in his mouth. It wasn’t a Benson and Hedges but it would have to do.

By the time they reached Earls’ Court the atmosphere between the partners had thawed, but it was clear to Robin that Strike was still on edge. She knew that the cigarette situation wasn’t helping but had no intention of backing down. Instead she invited him in, made strong tea and sat him down on the two-seater sofa, joining him with her own mug.

“I’m really going to miss you this week, so let’s not part on bad terms. I know you’re worried about me and it’s very sweet, but the more you’re around, the more I’m at risk of being discovered, you know that.”

He huffed a sigh and nodded.

“I know…I know I’m being totally fucking unreasonable, I just…” but he couldn’t quite bring himself to say what he was thinking, and Robin had no intention of pushing of him. Instead she set her tea down on the table and got to her feet.

“Are you going to stay and watch my transformation into Rosie Swann?” she asked, eyes twinkling.

“Go on then,” he grinned back. Perhaps, he thought, he might be reassured when he saw her in undercover mode.

She emerged from the bedroom an hour later and Strike almost did a double take. If he hadn’t known there was only the two of them in the flat, he wasn’t sure he’d have recognised her at all.

Robin hadn’t just dyed her hair dark, chocolate brown, she’d also managed to trim it herself so it was just noticeably shorter, and instead of its usual sleek style, it fell in soft curls to just above her shoulders. Her eyes were brown and edged in perfectly winged black eyeliner, beneath fashionable chunky black spectacles, her lips were deep red. She appeared to be sporting a silver nose ring along with dangly, gothic looking earrings and an eclectic assortment of silver bracelets which crept up over the sleeve of the black mesh top she was wearing over a black vest top. Black skinny jeans and cherry red Doc Marten’s completed the look.

“What do you think?” she announced, giving a twirl.

Strike was reminded of her asking the same question in the dressing room at Vashti, when he’d realised for the first time exactly how much of a threat she posed to his peace of mind. Today that feeling was intensified a hundredfold. Her transformation made the situation real somehow and the fact that she looked so unlike Robin was both impressive and terrifying.

“Yeah…,” he replied, nodding his approval, “You look very…studenty.”

She snorted with laughter.

“But do I look potentially witchy?”

“Well if you do, you’re the sexiest witch I’ve ever seen,” he replied. He looked her up and down for a minute then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small paper bag.  
“This is for you,” he said, handing it over, “Thought it might be a welcome addition to your new Goth wardrobe.”

Robin perched next to him as she opened the bag and pulled out the contents. On a length of black leather, hung two roughly shaped silver circles, etched with what appeared to be a crude ‘M’ and a somewhat misformed ‘Y’. She looked at him quizzically.

“They’re runes. The ‘Y’ is Algiz, a symbol of protection. The ‘M’ is Ehwaz, symbol of partnership and working together to achieve a common goal,” he didn’t quite meet her eye as he spoke.

She turned his face towards hers and kissed him softly.

“Always,” she whispered.

* * *

The drive to Oxford was unhindered by traffic or roadworks and Robin arrived shortly after two o’clock. She’d been allocated a parking space on site for the battered Land Rover which, if anyone asked, she would tell them was due to the ‘health problems’ that had interrupted her previous degree studies and caused her to be returning as a mature student. She’d packed her belongings in a couple of wheeled suitcases and a folding box on wheels with a pull handle to enable her to easily manage them on her own, and within ten minutes of pulling up, a member of the premises team was showing her into her study bedroom.

Despite her research online, she was still taken aback by how basic the accommodation was. Unlike most universities, Oxford had not replaced many of its old buildings with modern alternatives and Wolfson Hall was no exception. The walls were painted magnolia and the woodwork was black gloss. The window was high, so although the room was light enough, there was little view to speak of, unless you made a point of looking for it. A metal framed, single bed with a couple of plastic drawers on wheels beneath filled one wall; a desk, chair, small bookcase and an integral cupboard which served as a wardrobe accounted for the remaining furniture.

Robin let out a long sigh, then galvanised herself and headed back out to the car park for her remaining belongings.

The box on wheels, in hindsight, had been a mistake. It was easy enough to bump a zipped suitcase up the lengthy flight of stairs to her room, but an open box was more of a challenge. She was glaring at the contraption in frustration after her third attempt to shift it without the contents falling out when she heard a voice behind her.

“Need a hand?”

She turned to see a young woman a little shorter than herself, slightly plump, with dark blue eyes and cropped hair which had obviously been coloured with henna. Her purple velvet skater dress was accessorized with fishnet tights and biker boots fasted with large silver buckles that jingled when she stepped forward to lift one end of the container.

“Thanks,” smiled Robin, “I’m Rosie, just moving in today…think I should have accepted the boyfriend’s offer of help after all.”

The other woman snorted. “If he’s anything like mine he’ll be more of a hindrance. I’m Beth by the way – looks like we’re going to be flatmates.”

She helped Robin to her room with her box of books and gave her a reassuring grin.

“All the rooms look like shit when they’re empty, but you can fix it up. Wanna see mine?”

“That’d be great.”

“C’mon on,” she indicated the door with a nod of her head. “How come you’re here halfway through the year? What course are you on?”

“Second year Forensic Psychology,” replied Robin, “I had to drop out first time round…had some health problems. By the time I’d recovered I didn’t fancy getting straight back into it so I went travelling…so here I am…mature student 101.”

“But why mid-year?”

“Because my lovely dad,” she rolled her eyes, “…knows someone who knows someone here and was – and I quote – fed up with me fucking about backpacking. The moment I mentioned I was thinking about finishing my degree he was on the case like the proverbial rat up a drainpipe.”

“Charming,” answered Beth, sympathetically. “For what it’s worth, my dad's a bit of a dickhead too. Here we are…”

She opened the door onto a room that bore so little resemblance to the one Robin had been allocated, she could almost imagine she’d stepped through some kind of wormhole. Whilst the desk was stacked with text books, laptop and other indicators of academia, the rest of room brought to mind a combination of the Wiccan shop and hippie commune. The bed was covered with a throw of brightly coloured tie-dye fabric emblazoned with a hand-painted tree, it’s roots twisting and turning to spell out the name Yggdrasil, whilst a dreamcatcher of brown leather and turquoise beads hung over the pillows. The cork noticeboard and wardrobe door were covered with photos, ticket stubs interspersed with drawings of mythical creatures and symbols, and what appeared at first glance to recipes, but on closer inspection turned out to be spells and incantations. A row of crystals of varying shapes, colours and sizes sparkled on the windowsill in the late afternoon light.

Robin looked around the room, wide-eyed.

“It’s great isn’t it?” beamed Beth, “…and this is my altar.”

She opened the cupboard door to reveal a space empty of clothes, the walls fitted with small shelves carrying an array of multicoloured candles, smudge sticks, rune stones, more crystals and a pack of tarot cards.

At the bottom was a small table covered in a purple cloth patterned with black suns and moons. In the centre of it stood a thick, white candle, etched with symbols that Robin was unable to identify. To the left of the candle was a small, pewter chalice, to the right…

“Is that an athame?” asked Robin, bewildered at her good fortune in having already stumbled across someone that could be so useful to her investigation.

Beth’s eyes glittered with mischief. “I knew you’d get all this as soon as I saw you. I could tell from your aura. Yeah, it’s an athame. Powers that be don’t like it…had it confiscated last term and had to break into the Premises office to get it back.”

“Bloody hell!”

“Can’t let the muggles win,” joked Beth.

“What’s it made of? I worked in a Wiccan shop for a bit but I’ve never seen one like that.”

“Whitby jet. Most shops just sell bog-standard metal ones but I wanted something a bit different.”

“It’s really cool.”

“Do you want a closer look?”

“Do you mind?” Robin was aware that many wiccans did not like others to touch their tools in case it disrupted their energy.

“Course not…like I said, you’ve got a good aura,” Beth reached for the knife and handed it to Robin, who turned it reverently in her hands, admiring the carving on the handle section, whilst surreptitiously trying to ascertain how sharp the blade was.

“It’s really special,” she whispered, hoping to convey a suitable amount of awe, “How did you find it?”

“My boyfriend got it for me…he’s got family in Yorkshire.”

“He has his uses then?” Robin remembered Beth’s earlier comment.

“Yeah, I s’pose he does.”

* * *

Back in Denmark Street, Strike checked his watch for the umpteenth time. Robin had said she would message him once she was settled, and she’d left over four hours ago. He knew she would want to get everything straight in her room and ready for the following day, so he wasn’t unduly concerned, but still he would be happier once he’d heard from her.

Noting that it was after five, he took a beer from the fridge, settled onto the sofa and put on Sky Sports, hoping the Arsenal might be able to achieve something that would distract him for an hour or two.

The next thing Strike knew, he and Robin were wandering through the grounds of St Hugh’s college. It was no longer early February, but midsummer, and the air was filled with scent of stocks and roses. Robin looked beautiful in a pale blue sundress, her hair loose, her hand holding his tightly as she laughed at the antics of a couple of squirrels in a nearby oak tree. Strike felt utterly contented, but also aware that something was missing. It took him a few minutes to realise what it was. The pain and discomfort of his injured leg was completely absent and when he looked down, he saw that he was no longer injured, but whole again.

Suddenly, Robin turned to him.

“Did you hear that? Someone’s calling you?”

He stopped and listened to a faint voice filtering through the gentle sound of the breeze through leaves, lazy bumblebees and birdsong. Leda.

“C’mon,” said Robin, tightening her grip on his hand and tugging him in the direction of the voice, somehow, she seemed to instinctively know it was important to him.

As she ran faster towards the building that the sound was coming from, he felt a sharp pain in his leg and realised that once more he was trying to run on a prosthesis. He lost his grip on Robin’s hand and watched her enter the door into the red brick building again.

He limped on, determined to catch up, and threw himself through the door, only to be confronted with what seemed like hundreds of staircases, some leading upwards, some down. He heard Robin call his name, but she was no longer laughing.

Panicking he ran as best he could between the staircases until he heard her voice coming clearly from one leading down into the basement of the building. He leant over to look down the stairs calling her name, and saw her at the bottom, tear-stained, her eyes pleading.

In between them, dressed in flowing black was a tall figure wearing a gorilla mask. The person turned towards him laughing maniacally and tore the mask off to reveal a pale, beautiful face and flowing black hair. Charlotte.

Strike awoke with a start to the ringtone he had assigned specifically to Robin.

“Robin?” he mumbled.

“I’m here and unpacked,” said Robin in a rush, not noticing his lack of coherence in her excitement to tell him her news, “And guess what I’ve found?”

Strike’s heart was pounding quite unnecessarily in his rib cage and he took a deep breath and forced himself to focus.

“What?”

“The missing athame…it’s made of jet, and it’s not sharp enough to have cut a brake cable.”


	7. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin gets better acquainted with St Hugh's, but not without some unpleasant memories rising to the surface. In London a surveillance job in a neighbourhood where Strike previously lived results in a brief but unwelcome meeting.

Robin’s first couple of days at Oxford were busier than even she had anticipated. By day she was in lectures, trying to dredge up memories of her original course and take on board the new things she was learning. She still hoped to one day finish her degree for real and had been looking at Open University courses within days of leaving Matthew.

More draining than the studying however, was trying to combine that with the investigation itself. There were people everywhere, all the time which made working undercover exceptionally challenging. She’d put together a box of supplies for the studio from which she’d be working on the case, which the premises team had discreetly removed from her room in halls and set up for her, but she was beginning to realise that accessing the work space would require all her counter surveillance skills.

Her flatmates were keen to take her under their respective wings which was lovely and useful, but also frustrating as they tried to get her involved in absolutely everything. By Tuesday evening, she had agreed to join a running club with Imi, a beautiful, willowy second year law student, as well as an informal Sunday afternoon pub-based study session with her fellow psychology students. She had inveigled an invite to a meeting of the Wiccan club at the weekend, and Beth was determined to bring her along to student night at the union bar on Thursday, followed by a house party. She was desperate to introduce Robin to her boyfriend, who was studying Experimental Psychology, although Robin was already slightly weary of hearing about him. Beth was truly besotted and looking forward to having him back from a study trip to the Netherlands he’d already been away on for a week.

With Strike due down at the weekend, Robin knew she had to get some work underway, so, waiting until late in the evening to minimise the possibility of being seen, she put on the Premises Team uniform she’d been given, removed her glasses, tucked her hair under a black beanie hat, and headed to the studio.

It was a short walk and well lit, but fairly exposed so rather than take the direct route across campus, she slipped out of the far side of the Wolfson building and walked around the edges of the grounds, past the row of smaller, more traditional student houses that threw their shadows and offered more plentiful places to duck into unseen if necessary.  
Even with her training, her heart was racing by the time she arrived at the little studio. Letting herself in quietly, she found her way around the space by the lights coming in from the grounds and made sure the blackout blinds were well in place before switching on a small lamp.

It was a far cry from her tiny, shabby room in halls, and she supposed it was the kind of place that would only be available to the likes of the Charlotte Campbells of this rarified world. She had a brief flashback to Strike, fondly thumbing the old Latin dictionary in the pub the previous week and felt a rush of resentment, or maybe it was jealousy, and she wasn’t entirely sure why. The spectre of Charlotte had always been there of course, but now, it seemed more tangible, and Robin didn’t like it one bit.

* * *

Back in London, Strike was restless but exhausted. He’d spent the entire day on fruitless surveillance which had dragged on longer than anticipated due to a change of plans by his quarry. He’d been unable to speak to Robin when she’d called earlier as a result, and unable to get hold of her since.

Genevieve Madison had called him to update him on the results of tests that were being conducted on the brake cables of the lecturer who had been targeted. For the most part it had been decided that Strike would be a conduit of information between her and Robin to avoid them being seen together unless absolutely necessary. She’d dropped into the conversation that she’d seen Robin around campus and had had reports back from her lecturer that she was already fitting in beautifully and making herself popular.

Reaching for his phone, Strike did what he promised himself he wouldn’t and pulled up the fake social media account Robin has created for her alter ego, Rosie Swann. It was already full of tags, new friend announcements and photos of her with her fellow psychology students and flatmates. She merged seamlessly with the fresh-faced young women and handsome young men, several of whom reminded him of her ex-husband, and he felt simultaneously proud and terrified.

He glanced at the clock by his bedside which showed nearly midnight and made an executive decision to stop torturing himself and turn in for the night.

* * *

By the time Robin had rearranged the studio to her liking, got her second laptop set up, checked her emails and looked through the last two days’ worth of updates from Genevieve on the Oxford situation and Strike on their other cases, she had thoroughly lost track of the time and it was gone two in the morning. She closed down the lid of the laptop, switched off the lamp, peeked out of the window and listened. Silence. No doubt if it had been later in the week there would still have been an abundance of people milling about, on their way back from parties and gatherings. Robin put her hat back on and hugged her jacket around her as she made her way out into the night.

She took the direct route back across the campus, a short and much better lit walk, and let herself in the door nearest to her room in Wolfson. She’d had a healthy awareness of her surroundings as she’d followed the paths through the immaculately kept gardens but hadn’t been unduly concerned. For most people that would have been the part of the short journey that they were nervous about, a feeling of relief washing over them once they got behind a secure door. For Robin it was the opposite. She had been attacked by Laing out in the open, at night, but she had been able to run and she’d ultimately fought him off. Indoors held more fear for her…it was inside the boat where Raph Chiswell had held a gun to her head, inside halls where Oliver Trewin…

There were nine staircases in Wolfson, leading from the ground to the first-floor apartments. She had to pass three to get to hers. Three staircases, three stairwells, dimly but adequately lit by security lights.

She shuddered as she passed the first one, her footsteps echoing eerily down the empty corridor. Halfway to the second staircase, a sudden noise made her jump and turn. There was no-one there. She knew it had probably come from one of the ground floor apartments, so sudden and brief that she was unable to identify its precise origins. She felt her throat tighten as she increased her pace and forced herself to try and control her breathing.

As she approached the third staircase she could see that one of the security lights wasn’t working and stopped dead in her tracks. The pool of inky black space sat just where she knew there was a recess leading to the mailboxes, a recess she was now unable to see. She fumbled for her phone.

Strike hadn’t managed to achieve his normal level of unconsciousness and picked up quickly, much to her relief.

“Robin? What’s the matter? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she forced herself to keep her voice steady. “I’m on my way back to halls from the studio and a security light is out, just being a bit over cautious.”

Strike nevertheless could hear the tension in her voice, the slightly exaggerated breathing, and gritted his teeth in anger at the other end of the line. He’d spoken to Genevieve about this, made it abundantly clear that Robin’s safety was paramount.

“Fuck’s sake,” he growled, “I’ll get straight on to Genevieve in the morning…”

“Calm down…it’s probably just a light bulb, one of those things. I just felt safer talking to you whilst I went past. I’m back to room now. Sorry I woke you.”

“I don’t care about you waking me…I’m sorry I couldn’t take your call earlier, surveillance went on longer than I expected.”

“S’okay,” she put him on speakerphone whilst she undressed and slipped on her fleece onesie. The halls were Baltic at night. “What do you make on the latest assessment of the brake cable situation?”

“Well it looks like Barclay was right and it wasn’t done with the correct tools, but it can’t have been done with the confiscated athame either…”

“Doesn’t mean it couldn’t have been done with a different one,” replied Robin, “I’m going to a Wiccan club meeting on Saturday night so hopefully I might find out about some other tools of the trade…”

“Saturday night? I thought we were seeing each other then…I’ve booked a hotel in Abingdon.”

“I know, it’s not until late and we’ll have the rest of the day. What time can you check in from?”

There was a cheeky tone in her voice which went some way to assuage Strike’s irritation at having their forthcoming reunion rudely disrupted.

“Three o’clock, but I can make it earlier,” he said, his voice soft and husky.

“Yeah? Do that then,” Robin was grinning down the phone, “…but I really need to sleep now.”

“Okay, have you locked up properly?”

“Yeah, studio’s got a deadlock fitted…”

“I meant your room. I don’t care about the bloody studio.”

“Of course I have. I’ll be fine now. Speak tomorrow, night night.”

“Love you Ellacott.”

“You too. Night.”

* * *

Strike hung up the phone receiver the following morning after a somewhat tense conversation with Genevieve Madison. She had seen straight through his professional concern for Robin and gently but firmly stated that she hoped it would not be an impediment to the investigation. He had replied tersely that his personal relationship with Robin was irrelevant, but his duty as senior partner to manage risk and protect the wellbeing of his junior partner and other members of staff most definitely was not.

There had been no further attacks or developments since Robin had arrived at Oxford, and although it was only day three of the investigation, Strike was impatient for something - anything - to get his teeth into. With Barclay on the building site and Hutchins at sixth form, he was combining a couple of smaller surveillance jobs with doing all the desk and admin work. It had been a deliberate decision to free him up if he was needed on the Oxford job, but he was bored, restless and already missing Robin’s cheerful, if intermittent presence in the office.

Tidying away the bills he’d been paying online, he decided to head out early for his afternoon surveillance job on the other side of London and treat himself to a pub lunch on the way.

* * *

Strike felt an unsolicited wave of nostalgia as he disembarked at Notting Hill tube and made his way westward towards The Mitre, a smart red brick gastro pub which he hadn’t had occasion to visit for over three years. It had been his favourite local whilst living with Charlotte after losing his leg. Only a few hundred yards from her apartment it was an easy, flat walk on wide, tree-lined streets, and had been a welcome haven whilst he’d been getting to grips with using his prosthesis outside the confines of the rehab centre.

It was also conveniently near to his afternoon’s work, investigating the activities of a wealthy Greek businessman, whose soon to be ex-wife feared he was planning to return to his homeland with their three small children. He had an appointment that afternoon at the Embassy of Greece, and it was up to Strike to try and ascertain if her suspicions were well founded.

He made his way into the front of the pub which was light and airy, with plenty of natural wood, black and white artwork adorning the walls and large, comfortable seats upholstered in pale blue fabric. The bar manager looked up and did a double take as he approached.

“Cormoran?!” he exclaimed, “Bloody hell, only see your face in the papers these days. How are you doing?”

“I’m good, Eddie, really good. How’s business?”

They chatted inconsequentially for a while, until the pub began to get busier and Strike retired to table by the window with his pint and awaited the arrival of his haunch of venison with celeriac puree, cavalo nero and a side order of parmesan and truffle fries.

Half an hour later, he was mopping up the gravy with the last few remaining chips, whilst exchanging messages with Robin, who was between lectures. He didn’t see the tall figure walking past stop in their tracks as they saw him at the window and double back to enter the pub. In fact he was completely oblivious until a shadow hovered over his table and he heard a familiar voice.

“Bluey…what are you doing in here?”

 _Fuck_.

He’d thought he was safe to make it a leisurely visit to the area, she lived miles away now with Jago now so little chance of bumping into her. Not for the first time he wondered if she had a sixth sense, or some other, more dubious means of keeping tabs on him. He glanced down at his plate and back up at her, his expression dead-pan.

“Lunch…on the way to a job.”

“Ahhh,” she slid into the chair opposite him, not waiting for an invitation, “I thought perhaps this was another one of your trips down memory lane.”

“I’m sorry?”

“We had dinner with Jamie Maugham at the weekend, he mentioned seeing you at St Hugh’s last week…”

 _Bollocks_ , thought Strike. What the hell was he doing there? He certainly hadn’t seen him, which was probably just as well. He could still remember the blazing row they’d had over dinner several years previously. The thought of Maugham’s smug, shiny face and barely coherent arguments in favour of the death penalty still made his blood boil.

“Riiiight…” he replied slowly, stalling for time.

“The law faculty have asked him to do a talk on career paths,” she sniggered, “Perfect man for the job, you know how much he loves the sound of his own voice…so what were you doing there?”

“Um, similar thing actually…some of the work I did in the army…dealing with tribal communities in Africa, you know, feeds into the current social anthropology syllabus. My old lecturer is the Principal now.”

“Dr Mad? She was never my biggest fan,” said Charlotte drily.

Still wasn’t if her brief comment on the phone that morning was anything to go by, thought Strike, knocking back the last of his beer. He’d planned a leisurely coffee to round off his meal but had no desire to make any further conversation with Charlotte. He got to his feet, trying to ignore the fact that she was looking at him intently, and braced himself for whatever verbal onslaught was coming next.

“So…I presume your sidekick studied anthropology at Oxford too, did she?” she asked coolly.

“Pardon?” Strike was distracted by his phone ringing at the same time as Charlotte fired the unexpected question at him.

“Robin…Jamie said you were both there last week.”

Strike rejected Robin’s incoming call and met Charlotte’s sardonic gaze. She knew damn well that Robin had neither studied anthropology, or studied at Oxford. He felt a surge of anger at her questioning, and an overwhelming desire to stop pandering to her crap, despite the possibility of a tantrum ensuing.

“Yes, we were. Robin drove me, she’s my partner.”

“I know she’s your partner, but…oh…that kind of partner.”

Still she looked vaguely amused, and Strike bit hard on the inside of his cheek to stop himself losing his temper. He was aware of Eddie’s watchful gaze on the pair of them from the bar. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d witnessed an altercation between the pair of them.

“Yes, that kind of partner. Now you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got a job a to get on with.”

“I’m selling the apartment,” she called, as he opened the door, “That’s why I’m over this side of town. I’ve just had a meeting with the estate agents and the stylist.”

He paused.

The apartment. The one she’d taken him home to after he came out of hospital. Where they’d made love with abandon in every room and spent Sunday mornings in bed with the papers. Where he’d cooked whilst she drank champagne at the breakfast bar, where they’d spent their last Christmas together, where he’d proposed, where they’d rowed, where they’d made up. The apartment where she’d told him she was carrying his baby, where she’d told him it was gone, where he’d told her he didn’t believe her.  
The apartment he’d left in the early hours of the morning with just a kit bag of belongings to walk across London in the rain to Denmark Street, and a few hours later, his first meeting with Robin.

“Good idea,” he nodded curtly, “Bye Charlotte.”

He was barely a few feet down the road before he found himself reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes and realising that with his good intentions having been going so well, he’d forgotten to pick them up. He was still smoking socially on the odd occasion, but largely managing without. It was easy when Robin was around, encouraging him and finding considerably more interesting means to distract him.

He remembered her call and took out his phone. Glancing at the screen he could see a further missed call from Genevieve Madison, two voicemail notifications and several text messages from both women.

He called Robin and she answered on the first ring.

“Hi, I’m sorry…was in the middle of something. Everything okay?”

“Fine, but…and I may be jumping the gun, although I doubt it…I think there’s been another attack.”


	8. The Second Victim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin finds out more about the second revenge attack victim, whilst Strike's afternoon causes him to reminisce about his childhood and about Charlotte.
> 
> Strike and Robin are back together briefly to work on the case, but circumstances make for a disappointingly short visit.

Whilst Strike continued his surveillance, mulling over his conversation with Robin, and trying not to think about the one with Charlotte, the former slipped away from the grounds of St Hugh’s in the Land Rover and headed for the Accident and Emergency department at the John Radcliffe Hospital, where she met Genevieve Madison.

From the rear, as Robin entered the double doors of the unit, the principal appeared calm and composed, speaking to medics at length about the condition of her employee, but as she turned to greet Robin, her face was ashen.

“Is she…?” Robin hardly dared voice her assumption.

“She’s alive, just. They had to perform an emergency tracheotomy in the ambulance, and they’re trying to stabilise her now.”

“So, she’s going to make it?”

“They can’t say for sure. I’ve called Petra’s partner, Kate, she’s on her way from work now.”

Petra McConnaghey, respected senior history lecturer, was a sturdy woman in her late forties, with a mop of greying curls, huge, twinkling blue eyes, a penchant for oversized, colourful jewellery and a filthy sense of humour. She had a reputation for tough marking and was also well-known, both on and off campus for her outspoken and what some would describe as radical, feminist views. The student body had nicknamed her ‘Marmite’ McConnaghey, because without exception, they either loved or hated her, there was no in between.

“What makes you think it’s connected to the revenge letters, rather than an accident?”

“I’ve known Petra for years. She’s suffered with severe nut allergies since she was small child and managed them well. There is no way she’d make a mistake with the contents of her biscuit tin.”

“What about the department secretary? Is she new? Might she have made an error, not checked the ingredients?”

“Six years in post, all of them working with Petra, and to be honest…that’s not my main worry…”

Genevieve took Robin’s arm and steered her from the busy waiting room to a quiet nook in and adjacent corridor.

“Petra always carried an Epi Pen and kept a spare in her office drawer. There was no sign of any kind of auto-injector when she was found. As soon as I can speak to Kate and get permission I’ll arrange for you to go into her office with the Premises Manager and check if we’ve missed anything or if there’s any sign of tampering.”

“Does anyone else know of your suspicions?”

“No, it’s just a freak accident as far as anyone else is aware, and that’s the statement we’ll be putting out to the students. That she had an injector but it failed, causing a severe reaction.”

Robin frowned. Despite the waiver Genevieve had signed, she found herself becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the direction the case was taking.

“If…if the worst happens,” she told Genevieve, quietly but firmly, “You will have to call the police in on this.”

“I know,” mumbled Genevieve, looking at the resus room door across the waiting room, “Let’s just hope for everyone’s sakes it doesn’t come to that.”

* * *

Strike trudged back to Denmark Street that evening, having rounded off his investigations at the Greek Embassy with a visit to his client to break the news that her husband was indeed planning to abduct the children. The woman had been distraught, and it had taken all Strike’s emotional reserves to deal with her as sensitively as possible. He’d left her on the telephone to a colleague of Ilsa’s who was exceptional in the field of family law and thankfully in a position to work overnight, albeit at considerable expense, to draw up an injunction to present at court within forty-eight hours.

He wondered as he made his way through the drizzle and post-work drinkers, what people without access to substantial funds had to go through in such circumstances and found himself reminiscing about his own childhood.

He was under no illusions regarding Leda’s failings as a mother, but also had no doubt that she had loved him and Lucy, and, he supposed, Switch, her child with Whittaker. He was also aware that Auntie Joan had been keen, particularly after the horrific spell in the commune in Norfolk, to put something legal in place to ensure his and his sister’s welfare. It was largely down to Ted’s patient negotiation skills that they had had the freedom to come and go with their mother as they wished or as was deemed necessary by the adults in question at any given time.

There had been rows, nights when Lucy had climbed into bed with him and snuggled her head under his arm as he held her, in a desperate attempt to block out the raised voices. But every morning that followed, there would be breakfast on the table and an air of civility. Sometimes Leda would have gone, leaving them loving notes attempting to justify her actions and telling them that it was only temporary. On other occasions, the car would be packed and it would be Ted and Joan waving goodbye.

He knew, largely through Lucy, that they had wanted to raise Switch after Leda’s death. Although they were well in their forties by then, this was a child that they could raise as their own, a chance they thought they would never have. They had instructed solicitors, but it had become rapidly and abundantly clear that Whittaker’s grandparents, Sir Randolph and Lady Margaret Whittaker, were willing to put up a fight for a third opportunity to raise a child they could – finally – be proud of. They had friends in high places and substantial cash reserves at their disposal, no contest for a military policeman turned coastguard and his wife, who worked part-time at the local primary school. Ted and Joan, unable to bear the thought of a lengthy court case, associated media attention, and the potential for additional trauma to be inflicted on toddler Switch, had given up their claim on the child, and retreated, heartbroken, back to St Mawes.

An image of Charlotte flitted through his mind. She hadn’t even mentioned her babies this afternoon, let along had them with her. He wondered for a brief moment what would have become of their child, if it had even existed. Strike doubted that the presence of a baby would have made their relationship any happier or more stable, and when it had inevitably fallen apart, would he have been fighting to see his offspring, or would Charlotte have willingly given them up and returned to her old lifestyle? She had always prized freedom above anything else. He reflected that it was a blessed relief nothing had come of it, whatever it was, as he wouldn’t fancy inflicting either option on an innocent child.  
He shook the thought from his exhausted brain and collapsed into his armchair with a bottle of Doom Bar, just as his phone rang.

“We’ve just got back from the hospital. McConnaghey is in a coma…she looks horrific, Cormoran. It’s baffling to think someone might have caused this on purpose.”

“And you definitely think that’s what it is?”

“She received one of the notes…and she wasn’t popular with a large section of the university community to start with. They call her Marmite…”

Strike snorted. “Sorry…but that is a cracking nickname. Any more substantial evidence?”

“Genevieve’s known her for years. She’s had anaphylaxis since childhood and is good at managing it. Her immediate staff are aware of the situation and she always keeps an epipen in her office as well as one in her handbag. There were no signs of any when it happened. It looks as though someone contaminated the biscuits on purpose and made sure there was no treatment at hand.”

“Fuck me that’s a sinister way of getting revenge on someone who’s knocked a few points of a mid-term paper. Have you seen the room yet?”

“No, it’s been secured for now. We were both hoping you could come up tomorrow sometime and we can go through it with the Premises Manager.”

Strike pondered for a few seconds. He had an appointment in the morning and his leg was painful after a few days on foot. He’d banked on resting it tomorrow rather than driving. Still it was an opportunity to see Robin sooner rather than later, and that was more than enough to convince him.

“No problem, I’ll be there for two if that works. Otherwise let me know.”

* * *

McConnaghey’s ground floor office was in one of the older buildings on campus, considerably smaller than Genevieve Madison’s and certainly lacking its orderliness and understated décor. It reminded Robin more of a student’s room in halls than a place of work for a respected academic.

The magnolia paint on the walls was shabby but little of it was visible under a plethora of framed prints of various historical documents and newspaper front pages of major events…the end of WW2, the coming down of the Berlin Wall, the destruction of the Twin Towers interspersed with copies of the Magna Carta and various other manuscripts.  
Several houseplants in various stages of bedragglement lined the windowsill and every spare surface was crammed with books, paperwork and knickknacks from what Strike could only assume was every school trip McConnaghey had been on since primary school. Her desk was smothered in papers she’d been marking, several ring marks clearly indicating that her mug, bearing the slogan ‘Well behaved women rarely make history’ rarely made contact with any of the collection on coasters next to her keyboard. A large pottery tub painted green, white and purple bore an extensive collection of pens and pencils from tiny blue plastic biros, picked up from Argos or the betting shop, to mock quills.  
Robin stood, transfixed and wondering where the hell they were going to start. Strike was equally flummoxed by the scene in front of them.

“I’m not sure there’s a cat in hells chance she could have located an epi pen in this chaos even if she’d had one,” he remarked, quietly so the Premises Manager couldn’t hear.

“I spoke to Rebecca, the department secretary,” replied Robin, “She normally kept a spare in her top drawer and it had recently been replaced as the old one had expired. Petra had mentioned it to her in passing, but the drawers didn’t lock, so if someone managed to get to the room unseen, they would have had access.”

“And where’s the offending biscuit tin?”

“Gone to one of the uni labs for testing. They should be able to identify any traces of nut proteins. Rebecca said she only replaced the contents late Tuesday afternoon and checked the ingredients beforehand. I’ve double checked and what was in there definitely shouldn’t have caused a problem.”

They spent over an hour searching to see if there one had been missed but there was nothing. No-one, bar Genevieve Madison, had been in the room since McConnaughey had left on a stretcher. The Premises Manager, Alan Scott, confirmed that they there was no CCTV in the room itself, but they had checked the footage from the surrounding areas and  
found nothing suspicious.

Dusk was beginning to fall, and the fruitless exercise had left Strike’s imagination wandering to other things. Checking that Alan hadn’t come back into the room, he pulled Robin into his arms.

“It’s been four days too long…reckon you can sneak me across campus to the studio?” He lowered his head for a lingering kiss, before nuzzling into the curve of her neck, making her giggle.

She pushed him back gently.

“Probably, if we take the scenic route,” she grinned back, looking over his shoulder, “Hang on a mo,”

She reached into her bag for a half empty water bottle and headed for the windowsill, “You know I can’t bear to see plants in that state,” she began watering, then stopped, peering down behind the assorted foliage. “Cormoran, switch the light on.”

“What’s up?”

“The window’s open and…” she removed a few plants from the shelves, “Look…the rings from the plant pots don’t match which pots are there now. They’ve been moved. Do you think someone could have got in through the window.”

Rebecca came in at the very tail end of the conversation.

“No chance. It’s been jammed shut for well over a year. We didn’t realise until the heatwave last August and Premises never got around to fixing it at the time. I’ve actually got it diarised to remind them to sort it out over the Easter Break.”

“But it’s open. No-one has been to fix it in the last few days? Has anyone removed the plants to look at it or for any other reason?”

“No, absolutely not as far as I know, but check with Alan in case there’s something I’m not aware of.”

They did and drew a blank. They also discovered that whilst the exterior of the building was well served with CCTV cameras, there was a black spot by the history offices. The increasing likelihood of the incident being caused by sabotage rather than accident led to another meeting with Genevieve, before Strike headed off to an out of town pub, where Robin joined him a while later.

“I feel like this has been going on for weeks already and we keep drawing blanks,” she sighed.

“It’s less than a week in, be patient.”

“I know…I know,” she took a sip of her white wine, “We just have so little to go on, and something feels really, really wrong about…the whole thing.”

She’d been about to say ‘this place’ but it was so intrinsically linked to Strike, she stopped herself. Robin had imagined Oxford to be a magical, romantic place, but so far it was just making her feel uneasy. She was enjoying the course and the people she’d met but wished they were somewhere else.

“We wouldn’t be here otherwise…oh, food.”

Robin looked at her watch. “You know we’re not going to have time to sneak back for…you know…” she smiled ruefully.

Strike looked up at her, trying not to appear totally horrified.

“Why not?”

“I’ve got union bar and a house party tonight, and as much as I’d like to invite you along…”

“Yeah, yeah…old git alert I know. I’ll see you Saturday anyway,” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively at her, “I’ve arranged an early check-in.”

She grinned at him. “That’s what I love about you, full of bright ideas!”

“Just you wait until the weekend,” he winked back.


	9. The House Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whilst Robin parties, Hutchins gets some bad news which impacts his colleagues. Strike's past come backs to haunt him via social media.

“C’mon…cheap drinks finish at ten…need to make the most of it.”

Beth was hammering on Robin’s door. She tried the handle, but it was locked.

“Hiya, just coming,” she tugged on a long black fitted coat, grabbed her bag and made her way out.

“Why do you keep your room locked when you’re in,” asked Beth.

“I don’t always. I was…doing some physio exercises…bit embarrassing if anyone barged in.”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot…your health issues. You okay?”

Robin hadn’t elaborated on the fictional reason for her dropping out of university. She had a couple of possible accidents and illnesses in mind but was hoping to avoid having to go into any detail if at all possible.

“Yeah, I’m fine, let’s go.”

The Union Bar was already heaving when they arrived. Robin surveyed the scene from the doorway and instantly felt a ripple of anxiety. The room was tightly packed with people and dimly lit, the floor already slightly damp and sticky beneath her feet which vibrated to an all-pervasive baseline emanating from the DJ booth. In short, the kind of place that ten years previously she would have perceived as the best possible way to spend a night out.

She thought longingly of Strike’s flat above the office, and how much she’d rather be curled up next to him on the tiny sofa with a glass of decent wine and an episode of Silent Witness, but Beth had grabbed her hand and was tugging her towards the bar, which seemed to be virtually the only source of light in the entire, vast room.

Beth squealed as she spotted a group of familiar faces and introduced Robin. Imi was already there and apparently a few drinks down, accompanied by three more of their flatmates, who Robin had barely spoken to since her arrival due to their conflicting lecture schedules.

Max Nilsson, a tall blonde English and Modern Languages student who’d inherited his height and colouring from his Swiss mother, reminded Robin of Elin, Strike’s former girlfriend. Deputy editor of the St Hugh’s newspaper, The Swan, his temperament was considerably less icy, however and his laid-back personality made him popular with both sexes. Both Imi, and their fellow housemate, Phoebe were whispering and giggling behind him, obviously discussing who had the best chance of luring him back to their room later.

Phoebe Struthers was a petite brunette with a heart-shaped face, who came from a ludicrously wealthy family. She was studying classics and had more than enough intelligence to pull in a first, but openly admitted, much to Robin’s horror, that even though it was 2013, she was really there to find a suitable husband.

Joshua Anderson-Tate was the son of a successful businessman. Stocky, bespectacled and baby faced, he was clearly determined to make up for his lack of conventional physical appeal by being the loudest person in the room. Robin felt briefly sorry for him, then noticed the appraising look he was giving her, and wished that her faux leather kilt was a little longer and the form fitting black turtleneck wasn’t quite so clingy. She was reminded suddenly of some of Matthew’s more boorish friends and her sympathy changed rapidly to irritation.

“Shots!” shouted Beth decisively, wiggling her way between a couple of athletic looking guys at the bar and waving a twenty at the barman, who was far more interested in serving her than the other patrons. Robin deduced it probably had more to do with the burgundy corset she was threatening to spill out of than the cash in her hand.  
Robin groaned inwardly as she accepted the small glass of Jagermeister and threw it back along with her acquaintances. She had planned to start with bottled beer that could be unobtrusively topped up with something non-alcoholic and hoped this would not be the start of several rounds.

Sure enough, Joshua was already heading for the bar to replenish supplies winking at her as he handed her a glass. After throwing back the second shot, Phoebe suggested they go again.

“Count me out,” said Robin, to cries of ‘spoilsport’.

“Nah, seriously, I’m on meds…shouldn’t be drinking at all really.”

The hint of rebellion in her excuse was enough for them to let her off with no further argument, and she ordered herself a beer instead, vowing to keep topping up with water for the rest of the evening.

* * *

Strike switched his phone back on as he made his way from the BMW’s parking space back to Denmark Street. It came to life instantly and loudly with a series of notification. Five missed called and three voicemails from Hutchins. Strike sighed heavily and slipped into the doorway of an unoccupied shop to call his contractor back. Hutchins replied in tense, hushed tones.

“Strike, hang on minute, can’t talk here, just take you outside.”

Strike felt a sinking feeling in the pit of stomach. It sounded suspiciously like Hutchins was at a hospital. He waited until he could hear the sound of traffic through the handset before speaking.

“I didn’t check your messages. What’s going on?”

“It’s Louise, she’s been rushed to hospital with gallstones, they’re doing emergency surgery as soon a slot in theatre becomes available.”

“You’re going to be out of action for this residential then?” Strike pondered for a minute. Last time he’d checked in with Hutchins there had been no further developments. It probably wasn’t vital that someone go along, and he wouldn’t get a refund on his hotel room in Abingdon at such short notice. “Have there been any developments since yesterday?”

“I’m afraid so. There’s one particular girl who sees him a lot for ‘advice’ and has taken up his offer of extra tutoring. I was behind her and her mates in the canteen yesterday and she was talking about how ‘he’s managed to swing a single room so it looks like it’s finally going to happen’. I went to the trips administrator and told her I needed to check the paperwork for the trip. Turns out Mr Chips is the only member of staff not sharing a room.”

“Well if there’s an odd number of staff going that’s not necessarily strange.”

“It’s a youth hostel – they have all manner of configurations of room. I commented to Emma – the trips admin – that he’s a jammy bastard. Apparently he specifically requested the arrangement because he suffers from sleep apnoea and was worried about disturbing a roommate.”

It was clear from the tone of Hutchins voice he didn’t believe a word of it, and as Chips was clearly a fit, young man, it did seem unlikely. Strike rubbed a large hand across his aching forehead and made a concerted effort to prevent his irritation coming through in his voice.

“Right, well, you concentrate on the missus. I’ll have a think and make some calls.”

“I’ve buggered up your plans again, haven’t I?” Hutchins sounded wary.

“Can’t be helped mate. You did well to get that information. Without it I wouldn’t bother but it sounds like we might be able to round this one up over the weekend and get paid. Can’t complain about that.”

“Alright, well you know if I can return the favour…once she’s on the mend?”

“Yeah, yeah. Let me know how the op goes, okay?”

“Will do. Thanks mate.”

Strike rang off. It was starting to drizzle and he remained in the confines of his doorway for a few more minutes checking the remaining messages. They were mostly from Hutchins, one from Barclay wanting to come in the following morning for a catch up as he had commitments after work. Another from Lucy asking when he and Robin were next available for Sunday lunch. There was nothing from Robin. Realising the rain was not going to ease up any time soon, Strike braced himself and headed back out into the night.

* * *

It was approaching midnight and the house party they’d been invited to was well underway. All of Robin’s flatmates were in vary stages of intoxication and she was feeling distinctly out of her depth and frankly, exhausted.

Imi appeared to have succeeded in pulling Max and was wrapped around him on the sofa, snogging, her hair and clothing now in considerable disarray. Phoebe had conceded defeat as far Max was concerned and joined a group of friends from her course. Ever the optimist, she was drinking something lurid through a straw whilst batting her eyelashes at the Honourable Alexander Farrier-Worrall, son of a QC and a Tory backbencher, and heir to a large estate in the Cotswolds.

Robin sighed and shook her head.

Joshua was holding court with a group of first years, who seemed to find him more impressive than his contemporaries did. He caught Robin watching him, raised his glass and  
gave her a flirtatious grin. She quickly looked away.

_Where was Beth?_

Robin wandered through the rooms in the large house on the edge of the campus until she found her alone and morose in the laundry room, swigging from a bottle of cheap tequila. She looked up at Robin as she entered, thoroughly miserable.

“Bastard’s not shown up,” she spat. “He was due back from his residential around midday. I’ve seen a few people from his course this evening. He’s not even sent me a fucking text.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Robin perched next to her on the ancient tumble dryer, “That’s boys for you. A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.”

Beth snorted. “Sounds like something Marmite would say.”

Robin realised she had seen the same quote on a book in McConnaghey’s office that afternoon and flushed a little.

“Clever woman.”

“Not sure how much she’d know about men though,” giggled Beth, “Ah, fuck him. Wanna come outside and help me out with this?”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a joint. Robin eyed it warily. Aside from a couple of puffs on a bong during Fresher’s week which had had very little effect, she’d never dabbled with drugs, never been remotely interested. Still, it seemed like Beth needed someone to talk to, and if it would grease the wheels…

“Yeah, why not? I’ll get our coats.”

It was mild for February and mercifully dry as they sat on the grass in front of the house and Beth lit up. She took a long, slow drag and held her breath for a few seconds before closing her eyes as she breathed out.

Robin watched to see how it was done, and when Beth passed her the joint, did the opposite – a short, shallow breath in, exhaling almost immediately.

Beth laughed, clearly already feeling the effects of the drug.

“You won’t get much of a hit smoking like that.”

Robin grinned back and took another small toke before handing the joint back to her.

“Give me a chance, I’m out of practice.”

It was a massive understatement. Despite her attempts to minimise the amount she inhaled, Robin was feeling…something…by the time Beth had finished her second lengthy drag. It reminded her a little of the nitrous oxide she’d been given when she’d had her arm stitched, which had made her feel relaxed and slightly giggly. A still coherent part of her mind wondered how the hell Beth must be feeling after the quantity she’d consumed, and she waved away the joint as Beth held it out to her again.

They lay back on the grass. It was a clear night and watching the stars seemed like the most natural thing to do as Beth talked incessantly about her boyfriend. How they’d met back at the beginning of the year and bonded over their mutual interest in all things pagan, how gorgeous and clever he was, albeit misunderstood by those who, unlike her, didn’t understand his passionate nature. How she had been hoping to meet his family soon, but obviously that wouldn’t be happening now because it seemed like he was thoughtless arsehole after all…

Her rant was interrupted by the sound of large motorbike pulling up a few feet from where they were lying. Robin, who had been almost dozing, pushed herself up on her elbows in time to see Beth jumping to her feet and throwing herself at the rider, before they’d even gotten a chance to remove their helmet.

Maybe the boyfriend wasn’t such an arsehole after all, she mused, through a fog of hash.

“I’m sorry babe, I had to stop and visit my mum on the way back and ran out of charge on my mobile,” Robin heard him say, in muffled tones.

“Rosie,” Beth was beckoning her over, “Come here and meet Teej…” she turned back to him, “This is my new housemate, I’ve been telling her all about you.”

Robin stretched, got to her feet and made her way over.

“Teej, this is Rosie…Rosie this is TJ, my boyfriend.”

He pulled off his gloves and offered an outstretched hand.

“Thomas James Somerville West,” he introduced himself, in an unexpectedly deep, refined voice. “But for Christ’s sake don’t call me that! It’s TJ or Teej, as far as this one’s  
concerned. He looked affectionately down at a now beaming Beth and pulled her into a one-armed hug.

He was tall by most people’s standards. With Strike as benchmark, Robin’s perception was a little different, but he was certainly over six foot, and fractionally too slim but with apparently broad shoulders, although she couldn’t be sure if that was the padding in the leathers he was wearing. The removal of his helmet had revealed shoulder length, slightly layered dark hair, a pale, clear complexion and cheekbones you could slice cheese on. The area was well-lit and she could see that he had unusual eyes, a vivid, intense blue but with spikes of golden amber radiating from the pupil.

Robin couldn’t be sure whether it was the hash or the enforced separation from Strike and her newly rediscovered sex life, but her stomach flipped as she took him in, and with the drugs in her system it took a few moments for her brain to catch up and remind her that Strike and Beth aside, he was only twenty, and she was not in fact the twenty-five year old she was pretending to be.

_What the hell was in that joint?_

She swallowed and gathered herself. It had been a long day.

“Nice to meet you,” she smiled, hoping neither he nor Beth could see the flush that she knew was creeping up her neck, “Nice bike.”

The matt black Suzuki had caught her eye almost as much as TJ himself. For all her advance driving classes, it had been years since she’d rode a bike. She’d had plenty of practice with her cousins on her uncle’s farm, and had been keen to get one herself. Then she’d met Matthew, who’d convinced her they were dangerous and impractical, and cars were much better. She knew she’d never get him on the back of a motorbike, so she’d shelved the idea and made do with borrowing the Land Rover once she’d passed her test, which of course, Matthew had been no more impressed with.

“You ride?”

She thought of her possible cover stories.

“I did. Had a bad accident a few years ago, hence being back at uni now. I had to drop out...injuries.”

“And you haven’t ridden since?”

“Nope. I want to, but my parents…”

“Overprotective and risk averse?” he rolled his eyes. “I get that. Well, you only have to say the word…”

“Really?” Robin’s face lit up, she couldn’t help it.

Beth squeezed her hand and said happily, “See, I told you…I knew you’d get on.”

* * *

Strike rolled over in bed and picked up his phone. 3.24 am. He tapped in the pin code and checked his messages. Robin had texted half an hour earlier to let him know she was safely back in her room, and had met some potentially interesting people, including Beth’s mysterious boyfriend, Teej.

_Teej…what the fuck kind of name is that?_

Her message was peppered with uncharacteristic typos and for a moment Strike wasn’t sure whether he felt worried or cross. Was she drunk? Had someone else sent the message?

He brought up Rosie Swann’s social media page again and scrolled through the photos she’d uploaded over the course of the evening. She looked tired in the earlier photos, but as the evening wore on her expressions became happier and more relaxed. The last one of the night showed her sat with a huddle of friends, some of whom Strike recognised from previous posts, and one he didn’t and assumed was this ‘Teej’. They were on a battered sofa in the large front room of a student house, and Strike couldn’t help but think it looked vaguely familiar. He went back through some other photos from the house party, including a couple taken outside, then went back to the last image and zoomed in. Behind the sofa was a large window, featuring a window seat, and he suddenly realised why he recognised it. For in that seat, in his mind’s eye, sat an eighteen-year-old Charlotte Campbell.


	10. Taken for a Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike has some disappointing news for Robin, and faces some old memories resurfacing as he heads to Inverness Youth Hostel.  
> Robin recovers from the previous night's partying just in time to receive a call from the hospital regarding Petra McConnaghey. When the Land Rover lets her down, there's a knight in shining armour waiting in the wings.

Six o’clock the following morning saw Strike at the tiny formica table in his flat, halfway down his second black coffee and fifth cigarette. He stared ruefully at the swirl of smoke floating towards the open skylight and checked the time for his Uber.

The remainder of his night’s sleep after looking at ‘Rosie’s’ Instagram page had been not so much patchy as shattered, images of that room behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes. He drifted in and out of sleep and in the shallows between sleeping and waking thought of Robin, and the fact he was going to have to let her down this weekend, and for some reason that sent his thoughts spiralling to TJ and the other good looking, young men in her pictures.

Strike had never been a jealous man, and he trusted Robin implicitly so the fact that he was experiencing the emotion was troubling him as much the reasons behind it. Still, he reflected, he’d never been one-legged, approaching middle-age and in a relationship with a beautiful, brilliant woman ten years his junior before. He sighed heavily and tried to reassure himself that it probably came with the territory.

He checked his phone again and, realising the arrival of his Uber was imminent, stubbed out his cigarette, rinsed his cup and headed down the stairs with his battered holdall over his shoulder.

He’d have to call Robin from the airport later.

* * *

Robin woke considerably later on Friday morning, feeling a little like she’d swallowed a haystack. Her stomach gave a nauseous flip as she recalled the previous night. She was aware that she’d not said or done anything inappropriate or incriminating, but she did not feel good, and resolved to be more careful about what she was consuming next time.

As she wondered about the contents of the joint she’d shared with Beth, her thoughts turned to TJ and her surprising and very much unwanted reaction to him.

“Ugh…” she mumbled aloud, as she steeled herself to make the journey across the corridor to the bathroom.

As soon as she opened the door, she was aware of voices drifting along from the kitchen, Beth and she realised to her chagrin, the mellifluous tones of TJ. She groaned again, locked the door behind her and rested her head against the cool glass of the mirror whilst she waited for the shower to warm up.

They were still there by the time she arrived in search of coffee and toast.

“Morning,” she replied, not quite looking at either of them whilst she filled the kettle.

Beth laughed at her sheepish expression.

“Oh my God Rosie, you really are a lightweight aren’t you? We’re going to have to get you trained up if a couple of shots and half a spliff has that effect.”

“Leave her alone Beth,” warned TJ gently, “Not everyone has your capacity for partying.”

Robin shot him a grateful smile and realised with an enormous sense of relief that in the cold light of day and without a brain full of cannabinoids, he looked less spectacular and certainly didn’t elicit the feelings of lust she’d experienced the previous night. His eyes were still something else though, and she racked her brains to remember the word for the condition…central heterochromia, that was it.

“I told you, I’m out of practice. I was on so much medication for so long after my accident I couldn’t drink or anything so…”

“Is that what that is?” TJ nodded at her arm, and she realised in her distracted state she’d pushed up her long sleeves, revealing the eight-inch silvering purple scar that the Shacklewell Ripper had inflicted almost two years previously.

“Ummm, yeah,” she replied, turning her attention to the toaster.

“Sorry, you obviously don’t like talking about it.”

“No, not so much. Not with a hangover anyway,” she smiled weakly, as her phone rang at the other end the kitchen table. It was Strike’s ring tone and Robin turned swiftly and snatched it up before Beth or TJ could see the caller ID.

“Can you talk?”

“Sort of. Where are you? There’s a lot of background noise…was that a flight announcement?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t manage to catch you yesterday. I’m not going to be able to make this weekend, got to go to Inverness.”

“Inverness? Why?” Robin waved at Beth and TJ and headed back to her room.

“Louise has been admitted to hospital for emergency surgery – gallstones, so Hutchins can’t do the college trip and we’re on the verge of nailing Mr Chips.”

“Really, well that’s good news I suppose…” her voice tailed off as a memory floated the surface of her brain. Inverness wasn’t a million miles from Croy, family seat of Jago Ross, and this was a history trip if she remembered correctly.

Strike heard the tension in her voice.

“I’m not going with the college. I’m going to be maintenance at the youth hostel. They’re travelling up by train, so I’ll have plenty of time to get the lay of the land and plant some surveillance equipment in Mr Chips’ conveniently single room and a listening device in the girls’ dorm.”

“Sounds like fun,” Robin’s voice was dripping with sarcasm.

“It’s grubby and you know it, but not as grubby as what that sleazy bastard is up to.”

She sighed. “I know, it has to be done. I was just really looking forward to tomorrow, especially after your flying visit yesterday.”

“Me too. Hutchins has promised to make it up to me when Louise is on the mend, so…”

“Okay. Well, you get off and we’ll chat later?”

“’Course, love you.”

“You too.”

The rest of the day passed relatively uneventfully for Robin, for which she was exceedingly grateful. With no tutorials or lectures to attend, she holed up in her room with her second laptop and continued to work on the case, before fatigue and bacon sandwiches overwhelmed her after lunch and she fell asleep, only to be awoken by her mobile just as it was beginning to get dark.

“Robin, it’s Genevieve Madison here. I’ve just had a call from the hospital to say that Petra regained consciousness this morning. She’s exhausted and was a bit disorientated at first but initial tests so no sign of any more serious damage. She’s keen to talk to you, are you available now?”

“Now?” Robin was feeling a little disorientated herself. “Are the doctors alright with that?”

“Well, I don’t think she’s had that discussion with them, but she’s adamant. I’m here at the moment, if you could manage it, I think it would be helpful.” Her tone was more than a little inflexible.

For the first time, Robin felt a flicker of irritation at Genevieve’s insistence. Tenacity was generally a trait she admired in others and tried to foster in herself but being on the receiving end of Dr Madison’s particular brand was grating on her. Her curiosity about what Petra McConnaughey might have to say overwhelmed all that by a considerable margin, however.

“Sure,” she replied, “Give me half an hour. Can you text me the ward details and I’ll come straight up and find you.”

“Will do. See you shortly.”

Robin rubbed her face and eyes and levered herself off the bed. She rummaged in her wardrobe for something to wear that trod the line between professional enough for the hospital, whilst being incongruous enough not to stand out as she made her way through the campus, and a short while later was making her way to the car park and her battered Land Rover.

* * *

Strike arrived at Inverness airport at 11am, picked up his automatic hire car and made the half hour drive to the Youth Hostel. As he turned onto the A96, he felt his gaze being drawn briefly but inexorably towards the second exit, Croy Road, which he knew headed straight to the small town where Jago Ross’ family estate was situated. He’d even driven it once with Charlotte, when she’d been invited to a weekend house party and shoot there with some other friends of similar class and status. Strike, of course, had not been specifically included in the invitation, but he and Charlotte had just enjoyed yet another passionate reunion following his return home from a posting in Angola, and she had been offered a plus-one.

It had been abundantly clear on his arrival that neither Jago Ross, nor any of the other assembled toffs were expecting his presence. The men in attendance, a mixture of university colleagues and old family friends, were clearly discomfited by him. With their privileged backgrounds, they were unnerved by his ability to fit in, despite his own considerably rougher and less stable upbringing. The couple of single men, who had clearly been hoping Charlotte would arrive unencumbered, were downright rude, and the attached ones watched him warily.

He’d been at his fittest back then. Six foot three of highly trained, tanned muscle with stamina to match, but also enough charm and experience with people to fit in anywhere. He was not popular.

The women in attendance, had taken a somewhat different view of his arrival, and although he’d only had eyes for Charlotte, he’d appreciated the attention and thoroughly enjoyed showing off both his conversational and his shooting skills, and winding up the smug, chinless bastards they were with in the process.

Charlotte, who had initially seen the sport in his behaviour, had grown thoroughly jealous of the attention he was getting from other women by the close of the weekend. She had contained her rage until they pulled away from the Castle of Croy when a furious row had broken out on the way to the airport. On arrival she had promptly booked herself a ticket on an alternative flight, and left Strike to fly home alone, nursing a stinging left cheek and a bewildered and bruised heart.

Bringing his attention back to the road and the present day, Strike forced himself not to think about the spectacular make-up sex that had occurred the following week.

The youth hostel was not an attractive building from the outside. The three-storey box of greyish white pebble dashed prefab was topped with rust coloured roof tiles, which despite their aesthetic limitations nonetheless reminded Strike fondly of some of the barracks he’d stayed in during his early years in the army. Its location was good though, in a quiet and pretty town near the Moray Firth, and the interior was clean, modern and comfortable.

Maybe not so much like a barracks after all, thought Strike.

He introduced himself to the young man on Reception, and shortly the manager arrived. A woman in her fifties with a salt and pepper bob and cheery face who reminded Strike of a younger version of his aunt Joan, Morag Hodgson made him feel instantly at ease. She showed him first to his own room, then to those being used by the school party, which he gave a thorough once over, talking her through the plan of action as they went. She nodded at him, lips pursed.

“Well, he sounds like a nasty wee bastard,” she agreed. “I hope you catch the little tike.”

Strike suppressed a chuckle and headed back to his room to collect the surveillance equipment so he could fit it and check it was working before the students arrived.

* * *

“Buggering hell,” exclaimed Robin, aiming a light kick at the tyre of the Land Rover, “Of all the times you decide to let me down it would be now.”

She surveyed the ancient vehicle for a moment, before popping the bonnet, and grabbing a torch from the glove box to help her see the engine in the dusky late afternoon light. A few basic checks later it became abundantly clear that a couple of the spark plugs were in dire need of replacement and she wouldn’t be going anywhere that evening.

“Engine trouble?”

_“Fuck!”_

Robin, unaware of someone approaching banged her head on the edge of the bonnet lid, and mentally cursed herself as she felt her heart rate instantly double in speed.

_So much for bloody CBT._

“Sorry, are you OK? Can I help?”

She turned and looked up into the fascinating two-tone eyes of TJ (and although she was certain her reaction of the previous night had been down to weed, his eyes were still, undeniably, fascinating).

“Spark plugs…” she explained, “So no, I don’t think 2012 Suzuki parts are likely to be a match. I’ll call a cab.”

“Where are you heading? I’m on my way into town if you want a lift,” he paused, “That’s if you’re alright with the bike, of course, after your accident. You did say last night that…”

“God, yes I’d love to get back on a bike, but…”

She hesitated. She’d only met him the previous night, and she knew nothing about him apart from what Beth had told her, which admittedly was quite a lot. There was just something in his face, unusual as it was, that seemed to speak to her of trustworthiness. And besides, she was already ten minutes late and it would take another fifteen minutes to get there at this time of day…

_Robin, you’re **so** bloody naïve._

Matthew’s taunting voice filled her head, and in that moment her mind was made up.

“I’d love a lift, if you’re going anywhere near the hospital.”

“The hospital.”

“Um, yeah…” Robin reached for the stock response that she knew would elicit no further questions, “…gynae thing.”

“Oh, right,” he handed her a spare helmet. “Right, hop on. You remember what to do?”

“Hold on tight, lean into the curves, yada yada. It wasn’t me that caused my accident I’ll have you know.”

He grinned at her from behind his own glossy black helmet.

“Alright then, let’s go.”


	11. Sleepless in Scotland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin and Strike both make good progress on their cases, but can't help thinking about what they might have been doing instead!

Petra McConnaughey looked considerably better than when Robin had last seen her. Propped in bed on a pile of pillows, she was pale and obviously tired, but the angry red blotches that had covered her body had gone and the extensive swelling long subsided. A large dressing was taped to the base of the throat where the paramedics had performed a tracheotomy, and Robin instinctively raised a hand to her own throat and suppressed a shudder.

Genevieve Madison had been pacing the corridor when Robin arrived and had made her displeasure at her tardiness know. She was even less impressed when Robin explained another student had given her a lift.

“What?! We’re supposed to be keeping this under wraps, particularly your involvement…”

“Dr Madison, I am a professional. The student in question has no idea what I’m here for, and you can hardly keep this one completely under wraps when a number of students witnessed the incident in the first place.”

It was all she could do not to roll her eyes at the bloody woman. She’d liked her at first, but her dogged insistence on covering up what was going on didn’t sit entirely comfortably with Robin, even though she understood her reasons for it to some degree. Even with the disclaimer in place she hoped that they would get to the bottom of what was happening before the situation escalated and they were forced to involve the police.

With that in mind, Robin took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and addressed Genevieve.

“Shall we get on then? I’m sure Petra would prefer to get this over with and rest.”

Genevieve nodded grimly and showed her into the room.

Kate, Petra’s partner sat next to her, holding her hand. The other one, Robin noticed, was fiddling incessantly with the thin cellular blanket that covered her. She was suddenly not so sure that it was Petra who had been so desperate to talk to her.

She sat on the other side of the bed and smiled reassuringly at the woman.

“Hi, Petra. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve gone several rounds in a boxing ring,” she admitted, “But at least I’m here to tell the tale.”

“And are you sure you feel up to doing that now? I understand you’ve only been back with us for a few hours.”

Her eyes flickered briefly to the door, beyond which Genevieve Madison was taking a phone call on her mobile. Robin heard Kate let out a tut and an aggravated sigh. Suspicion confirmed then.

“Yes…I do. I’d rather get it over with to be honest. And I’d never forgive myself if I waited to talk to you and someone else became a victim as a result.”

Robin fervently hoped that this was Petra’s own take on the situation rather than an idea that Genevieve had placed in her head. She felt a surge of anger and realised that she was starting to really dislike Strike’s former tutor.

Robin kept her questions as brief and to the point as possible and emerged twenty-five minutes later having confirmed that Petra was one-hundred percent certain that her epi-pens had been stolen, that the window had still been painted shut the day before the incident, and that the biscuit she’d eaten, or attempted to – her reaction had been so fast – was one that she knew to be nut-free and had enjoyed on several previous occasions. She also told Robin that yes, she had been particularly strict with her marking of the recent exam papers and Robin could find all the paperwork relating to the exams and students concerned in a particular file in her office, which she was happy for her to access.

“Thank you, Petra, that’s really helpful,” Robin was relieved to have reached the end of her questions. The poor woman was looking paler than ever, and a healthcare assistant had not long put her head to remind them that dinner would be on its way round soon, and confirm her nut-free choices.

As she made to leave, Kate took her aside. Like her partner, her appearance was pale and tired, a frown etched deeply across her forehead.

“Miss Ellacott, I’m sure today’s visit wasn’t down to you, but I’d appreciate it if you could make it known to Dr Madison that you have everything you need from Petra for now.  
She’s been hovering all afternoon and it’s really unhelpful. Petra will be fine, it seems, but she’s more shaken up than she’s letting on and needs to rest and recover.”  
Robin smiled and nodded.

“I did wonder if this was entirely Petra’s idea to be honest,” she agreed, “…and I have got everything I need. I’ll make that crystal clear to Genevieve. You take care of yourself too, won’t you?”

“Thank you,” Kate gave Robin’s arm an appreciative squeeze.

Robin mulled over the whole scenario as she made her way down to the café at the hospital’s reception area where she had agreed to meet Genevieve to discuss the results of her conversation with Petra. She understood her desire to find out who was behind the attacks as soon as possible, of course, but the rest of it she found a little baffling. She’d seemed a very different person when she and Strike had met with her initially, and she wondered where the pushy, insensitive person she’d seen today had suddenly come from.  
She resolved to ask Strike about her and to do a little digging of her own when she got back to her room later.

Genevieve was sitting at a corner table nursing a mug of peppermint tea when Robin arrived. She ordered herself a latte and joined the older woman, resolving to be firmer with her than she really felt up to.

“What did she say? Did you get anything useful?”

Robin took a sip of her coffee and braced herself.

“Yes, I did, although…” she paused, giving Genevieve a steely look, “…I do prefer not to question people under duress.”

Genevieve had the decency to flush slightly.

“This afternoon probably wasn’t my finest hour,” she admitted quietly. “I really didn’t mean to put Petra under quite so much pressure, but I’m worried sick, and St Hugh’s means the world to me…”

“I realise that, and I do know what it’s like to feel that way about a career, really. Petra’s confirmed all the important details and told me where I can find the file of exam papers that started all this. We don’t need anything more from her at this stage, so let’s give her some space.”

Genevieve nodded.

“I could do with you give the lab a kick up the rear though. Would be good to get the results of the tests on the biscuit tin back.”  
“Oh, I had an email from them earlier. They found a residue inside the tin, as if it had been smeared with something, presumably peanut butter. It would be more than enough to trigger a reaction in someone whose allergies are as severe as Petra’s.”

“So, it really was deliberate then?” Robin pondered briefly on what to do next. “I need to get hold of those files and go through them to see who came off worst in the exam. Can you send me a copy of the marking schedule, so I have a better idea of what I’m looking at, and maybe get Premises to deliver the file to the studio? Actually, I’m going to need to look at the same documents for all of the tutors and lecturers who’ve received threats – just to make sure I’ve been given the correct information so far. I’ll get over there later tonight if you can arrange for it to be done as soon as we’re back – at least for the two that had been attacked?

“No problem. Do you need a lift? I can drop you on my way home.”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

* * *

Much later that evening, while Robin trawled through History papers and the associated marking schedule, making notes of those students most likely to be disgruntled and cross checking them with records of attendance, Strike reclined on his single bed in Scotland, drinking tea and munching his way through a packet of dark chocolate Hobnobs. He was determined not to give in to any further cigarettes if he could help it.

Robin had messaged him to explain the day’s events and let him know that she’d call later once she’d looked at the papers, so he was taking the opportunity to listen in to the conversation in the girls’ dormitory. He was, frankly, bewildered.

For a start, the actual conversation was limited for large chunks of time to ‘look at this’ and ‘OMG have you seen this’ followed by assorted squeals, shrieks and expletives depending on the nature of whatever the ‘this’ was. Then there was the constant stream of background music, and intermittent arguments about whose choice was to go on next. Baffled as he was by the dubious attractions of rap music, Strike couldn’t help but smile to himself when a Deeby Macc track made the cut, taking him instantly back to his early days of working with Robin on the Lula Landry case.

Robin. He sighed and thought about what he was supposed to be doing right now, which didn’t involve a slightly too hard single bed in a youth hostel, dubious music or giggly teenagers with poor judgement. He’d planned to take her to a low-key but highly recommended restaurant he’d found online, walking distance from the hotel he’d booked in Abingdon so they could both have a drink, then take her back and make up for lost time very thoroughly in a number of highly imaginative ways.

He shook his head and forced his mind back to the job in hand, replacing the headphones on which he was listening to the teenagers. There were six girls sharing the room, and through his characteristic patience and persistence he’d managed to identify them all so far, although one, Tara, was noticeably quieter than the rest. Whilst Strike’s mind had been wandering, talk had turned to their plans to sneak out the following night and head to Johnny Foxes for a few drinks and some flirting with the local lads. There were several whoops of agreement, before he heard one of the rowdier sounding girls address Tara.

“C’mon you spoilsport – what’s the harm? Don’t tell me you’re worried about getting caught? We’re at sixth form, not bloody primary school.”

“I know,” she replied, defensively, “I just don’t fancy it alright?”

“Well we’re not all staying here to babysit you.”

“Fine.”

“Whatever…loser.”

There was a brief sound like a mattress creaking, footsteps and the closing of a door, not quite a slam, but loud and firm enough for the message behind it to be clear.

“Fucking drama queen,” muttered the mouthy girl.

“She’s had a shit year though, maybe give her a bit of a break,” came another voice, “Anyway onto more important things…have you seen this tweet about Robert Pattinson? If he does marry Kristen Stewart I will never date again!”

Strike tuned out again and scrolled through the documents that Hutchins had emailed him which included photos of all the students attending the trip. Tara was indeed the one that he had indicated had been having the suspect conversation in the school canteen. Neither of the friends she’d been confiding in were on this particular trip, which would explain why she seemed to be on the periphery of the plans for the following evening, and why she had no interest in joining in.

He squinted at her picture. She was slim, pretty in a fairly nondescript kind of way – with wavy, light brown hair and hazel eyes behind lightweight metal framed glasses, clear skin and an attractive smile. She appeared to be a quiet and diligent student, who lived with her mother and younger brother. Strike looked at the contact details and noticed that her father’s details had been crossed out, but not replaced with an alternative. He frowned and sent Hutchins a text.

Hope all OK with Louise. Any idea about Tara’s family background at all? Looking increasingly likely she’s going to be meeting Chips tomorrow.

He listened for a while longer, until he was certain Tara had returned and it became clear the girls were preparing to turn in for the night. Assuming any liaisons were unlikely to happen, Strike removed his prosthesis with a sigh of relief, changed into pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt and slipped under the duvet to await Hutchins’ reply and Robin’s promised call.

* * *

In Oxford, Robin was curled up on the sofa in the studio with a mug of hot chocolate, finalising her list of likely suspects in both the brake cable and the Epi-pen attacks. She’d picked out the students with the lowest scores, cross referenced their names with any information to hand that ruled them out as suspects and created a comprehensive list. The other tutors who’d been sent the sigil had already given lists of those they suspected most likely to seek revenge for their grades, but Robin wanted to be sure they weren’t missing anything, and Genevieve had promised the remaining exam papers would be rounded up, copied and delivered to the studio first thing Monday.

Tidying everything away, she yawned, stretched and settled back down on the sofa with her mobile to call Strike. He sounded slightly dozy when he answered and she grinned fondly down the phone.

“Were you sleeping?”

“Not quite,” he grunted as he pulled himself upright. “Have you got anything useful?”

Robin spoke at length about what she’d discovered that evening, and it was agreed that someone would need to speak to the student suspects. Robin couldn’t do it, and they decided to sleep on whether Strike should get involved, or if it would be better to send Hutchins, assuming they managed to wrap up the Mr Chips case over the weekend. She filled him in on all the details of her conversation with Petra and of her and Kate’s concerns about Genevieve Madison’s behaviour.

“Still,” reflected Robin, yawning again, “At least she calmed down enough to give me a lift back to campus.”

“Didn’t you drive?”

“No, bloody spark plug trouble with the Land Rover, I’ll have to pop to Halford’s tomorrow.”

“Bollocks. Well don’t forget to keep the cab receipt somewhere safe and claim it back on expenses.”

“S’alright, I got a lift. TJ was passing and dropped me off.”

“TJ…with the motorbike?”

“Yeah…and don’t worry, obviously I lied about why I was going to the hospital.”

“Wasn’t going to ask you that, you’re not stupid, although I would question your judgement on getting on the back of motorbike with a guy you barely know, if I’m honest.”

Robin blew out a long, loud sigh. She knew he was right, really, but the voice of Matthew in her head had been so overwhelming, and she’d had a late night, and a long day and really didn’t need this right now.

“You probably have a point, but what’s done is done and all’s well. To be honest the amount Beth goes on about him I feel like I’ve known him my whole life,” as if to demonstrate, she went on, “He’s twenty, second year Experimental Psychology student, private school educated at a Catholic boarding school somewhere in the Cotswolds, Mum in London…presume his parent’s are separated as I think Beth said his Dad lives near Whitby…”

“That’s cold hard facts, it’s not the same as knowing someone.”

“Alright, point taken.”

Strike knew he was probably coming across like an overprotective, slightly controlling pain in the arse and bit back any further enquiries.

“Bet you enjoyed the bike though, didn’t you?”

“Hmmm…might have to give that some consideration when this is over. Much easier to get around and park on London roads.”

“You’d give up the Land Rover?” Strike was incredulous, and disappointed. He had a soft spot for the old crate after all the adventures it had taken them on.

“Don’t be so bloody ridiculous,” Robin scoffed, “I just mean get something small when I can afford it for day to day nipping about. They’ll have to bury me in that Land Rover when the time comes.”

“Not something I really want to think about.”

“Me neither. How about something else then…like the fact that if I do get a bike, I’ll have to get a full set of leathers to go with it.”

Strike groaned as the image of Robin in black leather biker gear instantly filled his mind’s eye.

“Are you trying to make sure I don’t sleep tonight Ellacott?”

“If you’d been here you wouldn’t have been sleeping anyway,” she teased, “But I need to. I’ll text you when I’m back to my room okay? Night night.”

“You can’t leave me hanging after saying!” admonished Strike, who had been hoping that some phone sex might be on the cards and was now even more horny and frustrated than he had been earlier.

But Robin had already rung off.


	12. Beautiful Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin consults her psychology books in an effort to understand the person behind the Oxford attacks. TJ confides in her after a row with Beth.
> 
> Alone on a case near Jago Ross’ family estate in Scotland, and already unsettled by Robin’s absence and the apparent ease with which she’s settling in with her much younger fellow students at Oxford, Strike finds his recent visits to Oxford playing on his mind and bringing back haunting memories of Charlotte.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***RECAP***
> 
> Six months after the Chiswell case, in early 2013, Cormoran Strike and his assistant, Robin Ellacott are in a good place. Dating for several weeks and with Robin’s divorce finalised, they have just admitted their new relationship to friends and colleagues when a case forces them to part company as Robin goes undercover as a student at Oxford University.
> 
> Dr Genevieve Madison, Strike’s former lecturer and now the Principal of St Hughes College, has called in the agency in the hope that they can get to bottom of things without police involvement and the inevitable bad press that would occur as a result.
> 
> She reveals concerns dating back to the previous autumn, when a caretaker found evidence of some kind of ritualistic meeting taking place in the grounds, and a number of students reported late-night sightings of a mysterious figure wearing a goat head mask.
> 
> A lull in reports saw Genevieve push the issue to the back of her mind until after Christmas and following mid-year exams a number of lecturers received handwritten notes featuring the sigil of Asmodeus, the demon responsible for vengeance. At first she and her colleagues assumed the notes to be a student prank, until one of the lecturers who had received a note had the brake cables cut on his car.
> 
> Robin joins a Psychology course at the university, and quickly integrates with her fellow students, particularly flatmate Beth and her boyfriend TJ, although she struggles to keep pace with the late nights and partying whilst also missing Strike, but a second attack soon gives her something else to focus on.
> 
> Meanwhile, a family crisis for Hutchins sees Strike forced to cancel his plans for a weekend in Oxford with Robin and head to Scotland to catch a sixth-form teacher intent on an illicit relationship with one of his students.

Saturday morning dawned bright and clear, a refreshing change from the incessant downpours that had been typical of Robin’s first week in Oxford. She rolled over and checked her phone to find a message from Strike.

**That was unfair! I was pleasantly sleepy until you put that image in my head. I’ll get my revenge…just you wait!**

**PS…love you. Wish I was there this weekend instead of in bloody Inverness. Cx**

She grinned and tapped out a reply.

**I wish you were here too…PS I’m still in bed…no leathers though – or anything else! 😜 Rxx**

It was an outright lie. The room was freezing and she’d bought two onsies after her first night in Wolfson Hall. She suspected Strike would realise as much, if he had time to think about it before the blood rushed from his brain. She grinned to herself at the thought, trying to ignore the frisson of lust that shot through her at the thought of a horny Strike miles away in Scotland.

Deciding to stay put a while longer until the hubbub in the communal areas died down a bit, Robin reached for her psychology textbook, flipping it open the page she’d marked with a pink post-it. It had little to do with what she was studying and everything to do with her recollections from her previous psychology degree, and a suspicion that it might be relevant to the case in hand.

> _The Dark Triad  
> _   
>  _The Dark Triad is the term applied to the combined personality traits of narcissism, Machiavellianism and psychopathy. Those displaying all three traits are likely to be lacking in empathy and more likely to commit crime, cause social distress and significant problems within a working environment…_

Robin snuggled further under the covers, uncapped her highlighter and read on.

* * *

In Scotland, Strike was preparing himself for a long and tedious day. The students were out for most of it, and if he had judged correctly – and he was rarely wrong on these things – Tara and Chips were unlikely to do anything in public that might risk their sordid secret being discovered.

An email from Hutchins had revealed a little more about Tara’s background. Her father had passed away early the previous year which had had a devastating impact on the family. Tara had taken on a lot of responsibility for supporting her mother and looking after her younger brother, in addition to studying and dealing with her own grief. Her social life and friendships had suffered as a result and she was considered something of an outsider. In short, Chips had, probably knowingly, targeted not only a student, but an exceptionally vulnerable young woman.

Strike’s blood boiled at the thought. It was hard not to draw parallels between Tara and his own sister, although with Ted’s constant presence and his own spectre looming in the background any man with nefarious intentions would have been an utter fool to try and put them into practice. He felt a rush of affection for his sister and resolved to call her when he got back to London.

His thoughts returned to Robin as he headed for the tiny en-suite. He missed her more than he’d thought possible. It was the first time they’d spent this long apart since, well, her honeymoon. Even when she’d taken the week off to move the previous year, she’d insisted on popping into the office a couple of times for updates on a case she’d been working on. He missed her presence, her warmth, her humour, and now of course, he missed her physically too. His mind wandered to their conversation of last night, and her texts of this morning and he felt himself growing hard at the thought of her. Turning the shower thermostat to cold, he resisted, yet again, the temptation to do anything about it, knowing he would only end up feeling slightly sleazy, pleasuring himself in a youth hostel shower in the middle of a case about a college sex pest. He shuddered at both the thought and the sudden change of water temperature and continued his ablutions before getting dressed and heading out.

It took Strike a little less than half an hour to locate the town centre and park up, and he treated himself to a Benson and Hedges as he strolled the five minute walk to The King’s Highway Wetherspoons, wondering about what Robin was doing this morning, and if she really had been naked when she’d messaged him that morning.

_I bloody hope not, those rooms were Baltic when I was there._

He found himself a quiet corner table, ordered a Scottish breakfast with haggis and a coffee, and took his time reading the newspaper, unaccustomed as he was to luxury of having opportunity to do so uninterrupted. By the time he’d finished the sports pages and consumed a third mug of coffee, he was more than ready for another cigarette, and he set off in the direction of the indoor Victorian Market, which, it had occurred to him, was as good a place as any to start the search for a Valentine’s gift for Robin.

Strike had always thought Valentine’s Day overrated, commercialised nonsense, and that opinion hadn’t really changed, but he was still enjoying the novelty of being able to show his feelings for Robin after so long keeping them suppressed, and couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed that they wouldn’t even see each other on the day itself. Eventually he stumbled across a small shop specialising in Baltic amber, the colour of which reminded him so much of Robin’s hair, he was irresistibly drawn inside. He soon discovered that the amber jewellery was all set in silver or leather, and he knew that Robin favoured gold. He was just about to leave when something else caught his eye, a chain holding a delicate sycamore ‘helicopter’ which had been dipped in gold. He took a closer look at the attached card:

> _Sycamore symbolises development, perseverance and vitality, promotes relaxation and harmony, and brings success and abundance. It is good for any magic to do with prosperity, love or longevity._

He had his doubts about the magic, to say the least, although it was fitting given their current case, but the rest of the sentiment and the item itself seemed very ‘Robin’, so Strike purchased it, and set off to buy snacks before returning to the hostel and his book, feeling slightly smug at his forward planning.

* * *

It was gone ten o’clock by the time an overwhelming need for coffee and the bathroom forced Robin from her room and out into the chilly apartment. Beth was leaving the kitchen as Robin made her way down the corridor towards it and her face was pale and unhappy.

“You okay?”

Beth stopped in her tracks and looked at Robin as though she’d momentarily lost her grasp of the English language. Close up it appeared that she’d been crying.

“Um, yeah, fine. Just y’know…bit hormonal.”

She was on her way again before Robin could dig any further into the cause of her distress, for she had no doubt that even if hormones were involved, they certainly weren’t the only thing upsetting her housemate.

Robin made a beeline for the kettle, so intent on the first coffee of the day that she didn’t notice the tall figure sat in the furthest corner of the kitchen until she turned around, mug in hand, a minute or two later. She jumped slightly, sloshing some of the hot liquid over her hand.

“Bollocks!” she exclaimed, reaching for the tea towel, “Why do you keep bloody creeping up on me?” she glared at TJ, whose amused expression immediately made her want to giggle in spite of herself.

“I've been sat here minding my own business since before you came in. That can hardly be construed as ‘creeping up’ on you.”

“Alright smug arse,” Robin slipped effortlessly into Rosie Swann mode, noticing as she sat down that the smile had faded almost instantly from TJ’s lips. She frowned at his morose expression.

“Have you and Beth had a row?”

He sighed heavily and ran a hand through his long, dark hair.

“No, well, sort of…”

Robin cocked her head on one side.

“I’m a good listener.”

His gaze wandered to the window and the view of the grounds before settling back on her.

“I bet you are, Rosie Swann.”  
  
She felt a shudder run the length of her spine, but she couldn’t put her finger on why, or even whether it was a good or a bad shudder. She remembered Strike’s tactic of letting the other person fill the silence and took another long sip of her coffee, making the most of the opportunity to scan the figure across the room. TJ’s voice had given no hint of emotional turmoil, and his gaze was fixed and steady as it returned to the window and watched a group of cyclists set off out of the nearest exit, but his bare foot was tapping rapidly on the floor, and he was picking incessantly at the thumbnail of his left hand.

Robin was over halfway down her coffee before he dragged the chair back to the table and sat opposite her.

“I had a fight with my Dad,” he admitted, eventually, “…and I guess I took it out on Beth.”

“Ah,” nodded Robin, “That would explain how she looked when I saw her going back to her room earlier.”

“Fuck…” he folded his arms on the table and dropped his head onto them. The table juddered slightly, and Robin noticed his foot was now twitching against the table leg.

“I’m having another coffee. Want one?”

“Yeah, that'd be great.” TJ waited until she had her back to him and was engrossed before he continued.

“I have an allowance each month. There’s something I needed the money for today and it didn’t go in yesterday as I was expecting. He’s changed the date of transfer without telling me and it’s…well, it’s just put me in a difficult position.”

“With Beth?”

“No, someone…something else. It’s fine, I’ll be able to sort it – I think. Just could’ve done without the aggro.”

“I’d offer to help but I’m skint myself.”

“Oh, I wasn’t hinting…it’s a fair bit of cash anyway. Certainly wouldn’t expect anyone to lend me it.”

“Right,” Robin placed a mug in front of him, more curious than ever.

“Anyway, have you got plans for today?”

She chuckled. “Spark plug shopping and car maintenance for me.”

“You coming to the Wiccan meeting tonight?”

“You’re into that?!” Robin couldn’t help but be surprised. She was aware the attendees were predominantly female.

“Yeah, up to a point. Some of it’s a bit daft, but harnessing the power of nature and all that…why not? I’ve got to sort this…issue…out later but hopefully I’ll get there. I’d better make my peace with Beth first though, but after that, do you want a lift into town for your spark plugs?”

_…although I would question your judgement on getting on the back of motorbike with a guy you barely know, if I’m honest…_

But, in broad daylight? And it would be an opportunity to try and get him to open about his ‘issue’ and his relationship with his father, which had piqued Robin’s interest. Was that really anything to do with the case though, she thought? Or simply the fact that there was just something intrinsically compelling about Thomas James Somerville West?

“I’ll let you know, if that’s okay?”

“Sure, see you later.”

* * *

Strike had spent much of the afternoon laying on his bed in the youth hostel, looking through notes about both the Mr Chips and the St Hugh’s cases. He drunk several cups of tea and polished off the remaining Hobnobs before picking up the battered copy of Cattulus which usually resided next to his bed in Denmark Street. It had been a while since he’d revisited the battered tome, but his browsing of the old Latin dictionary in the pub the previous week had inspired him to make the effort, and he’d thrown it into his overnight bag as he’d finished packing on Thursday evening.

It wasn’t long, however, before he found himself drifting to sleep, and suddenly he was no longer in Inverness, but back in Oxford.

_He was whole again, as he always was in his dreams, running through the St Hugh’s campus with a cool, soft hand in his, the sound of laugher behind him. Soon they were indoors, and the same hands were tugging his shirt over his head, throwing it vaguely in the direction of the sink, pulling him along a narrow, dark hallway._

_The bedroom door slammed and he had her up against it in half a moment, her nails digging sharply into the soft flesh of his shoulders as he lifted her, her endless legs curling around his hips as he rocked into her, leaving her in no doubt of his arousal._

_They tumbled onto the bed, a whirlwind of silk, the graze of lace under his large hands, then skin on skin, lips, tongues, fingers, the sound of her moans and gasps of pleasure driving him on relentlessly._

_He was sinking now, deeper inside her, drowning in her wet heat, waves of sensation crashing over him, her name splintering on his lips…_

_“Charlotte…fuck…Charlotte…”_

Strike woke with almighty jolt, heart thundering, cock rigid, awash with shame and a vague sensation of nausea.

He hadn’t felt like that about Charlotte for a long time and he didn’t want to feel like that about Charlotte again…ever.

Instinctively he reached for his phone to call Robin, needing to hear her voice, to be grounded by her presence, even if it was only via phone for now.

_“Hi this is Robin, I can’t answer right now but leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”_

Strike wrenched open the window, oblivious to the blast of icy air that hit him as he leaned out to light up his cigarette. He smoked two Benson and Hedges in record time before heading out to check the surveillance apparatus in both the girls’ dorm and Mr Chip’s room before they returned.

It was, he thought, going to be a very long evening.


End file.
